All It Would Ever Be
by writeforme
Summary: Annaleigh is a soft-spoken actress trapped among her soap opera character, two different boys, a life-changing disappearance, and her variable future. Through dark pasts, wan futures, and the intense present, Annaleigh leads an unpredictable life.
1. Act One

**A/N: This is not my story. It's Annaleighs. I will not beg you to review like the other people on this site. If you want to read it, and you want to review it, then you can. I would be glad if you liked Annaleigh's story, but not heartbroken if you didn't. All that really matters is reading something you may enjoy, and for those lucky moments, getting to experience someone else's life, and knowing what they have to go through every day.**

One

I didn't know what to say.

The lights were blinding me and it was all I could do not to shield my eyes. I could feel the warmth radiating from the lights, but mostly from the alive chemistry before me. A light blush crept to my cheeks and I silently cursed myself.

Here Damien was, possibly the most gorgeous man alive, on his knees begging for my forgiveness. Hands together, pleading, eyes wide with lust. From a front row seat, it would seem like he loved me. He looked like he loved me. He acted like he loved me. That one word caught me off guard and reminded me what I was here to do.

It's all it was and all it would ever be — acting.

I put my hand on his shoulder like rehearsed, pausing briefly to search for the meaningful words I thought I knew so well. Somehow, though, I just couldn't find the words. Where were they, these words I had practiced so excessively? The man kneeling below me sent me a look, his eyes no longer looking lovingly at me.

"Rosalina," he said, nudging me with his eyes. "Say something. You have to love me. You must!"

I stared at him. What was I to say? I couldn't think like me, though. Not like Annaleigh. I had to think like Rosalina. She was who I was. The character I had become.

Gracefully, I parted Damien's clutched hands, bringing them into mine. "Damien," I whispered, knowing all ears could still hear me. I paused, ignoring his confused look. I wasn't Annaleigh anymore. I was Rosalina. "My heart belongs to you and only you until eternity. But my head belongs to me and I cannot ignore it any longer."

I released his hands and stepped away from him. His bewildered expression worked well for him; though I knew this time it wasn't acting.

"You've betrayed me for the final time," I said, not only to Damien but to every soul in the room. My voice streaked confidence throughout as I turned toward him again and said softer, "I love you, but I am Rosalina and I must go."

I looked meaningfully at him, feeling pain and regret and love. I was Rosalina.

With that I turned around and exited the stage, not waiting for the curtain to fall. I knew what would happen right before the crowd would erupt into applause. The two pieces of velvet would drop down from their respective corners, overlapping each other, swaying until they finally came to a gradual, peaceful stop.

"Great going, Annaleigh."

"Yeah, way to forget your lines."

I kept walking, knowing full well what just happened. I had panicked and improvised. I was not ashamed of it though. I had done what I had been trained to do. And that was act.

"And Scott was so confused," they continued, following me. "Way to throw him off."

"Yeah, way to go," another echoed.

Slowly, I turned around, waiting until I had both of their eyes locked.

"What're your names again?"

They rolled their eyes. "We've told you like a million times before."

I just looked at them blankly, then headed for the door.

"I know you know my name," Camille called. "I don't know why you pretend that you don't."

I turned around, still walking backward toward the door. "It's called acting. It's what I do every day, four hours a day, since I was four. It's what I just did for that entire performance and every show before that. It's something you two should try sometime."

They stared at me, trying to read my expression. I shook my head in disbelief and sauntered through the doors.

"Annaleigh."

I heard him speak my name and I turned around, already on defense. Scott — the actor who played Damien — was leaning there against the door.

"What?" I said, not trying to hide my irritation.

"I just wanted to say—"

"Yeah I forgot my lines. Whatever."

"—good job today," he finished.

I squinted my eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You forgot your lines," he said, staring at me.

I stared right back, not sure where he was going.

"But you came right back and just…what's the word?"

"Improvised," I said, emotionless.

"Yeah! Everyone forgets their lines but it takes a true actress to recover like you did."

He pushed his black hair out of his eyes and waited for my response.

"Oh. Thanks," I said, unsure what to really say.

He smiled a crooked smile. "Just don't do it again because you made me look bad."

I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. This was Scott.

I laughed and shook my head. "Scott, you're an ass."

He stared at me in shock, then slowly smiled. I smiled right back. This time, I was Annaleigh.

End scene. Exit stage left.

I didn't know what to think as I walked home that day. The wind whispered and wrapped itself around me like a caress. The sun sang with color and brightness as it chanted to me.

I'm not used to forgetting lines in front of an audience. I _was_, however, used to being harassed by the girls whom I'd already forgotten the names of. It didn't really matter to me, though. It didn't. I could care less what they thought of me and how I performed in a show. I knew I was a talented actress and that's all that mattered to me. Nothing else. I was just pissed off about my sudden lapse of memory. No, the daily confrontation was just the cherry on top. The delightful mint on my pillow. The delicious dessert after an already wonderful meal.

I hated feeling like the underdog. Like I couldn't stand up for myself. Like I needed someone to lean on. God, I could punch someone.

I'd say I have a slight temper. More than slight, actually. When I was ten, my dad made me take an anger management class. Of course, the reason why it ended so abruptly probably confirmed why I needed the class in the first place.

Scott was, like I told him, an ass. He only cared about himself and his image, so it surprised me when he paid me a compliment. Though obviously it was a compliment with a twist, which I guess sums Scott up perfectly. Unfortunately, Scott is an ass with a great talent for acting. In every performance we two have the lead roles, and I always end up having to pretend that I'm in love with him just like every other girl in the grade. Pathetic.

As I approached my house, I saw my mom's blue truck parked in the driveway. Good. My dad was home.

I pushed open the front door of my house and yelled into it. "Dad, I'll be in the truck!" then closed the door shut without waiting for a response. I climbed into the passenger seat and waited for him patiently.

I looked up and saw him open the door, peering inside. "Crappy day?"

I nodded, not even feeling the need to explain myself anymore.

He stepped inside and revved up the engine. For a while we didn't go anywhere; we just sat there on our street — Cornflower Way, probably the stupidest name ever. I breathed in the all too familiar smell of my mom. Her new signature scent, though it seemed very old to me. I knew what had become of her, yet here I was, sitting in her truck with my dad. The man who had cared for her, and I, being the daughter that loves her. Loved? Not even I, the romantic and gorgeous Rosalina, knew the answer to that.

My mother hadn't always been a bitch. For a small scene of my life she actually played the role of the typical mother: packed my lunch, made muffins in the morning, and helped me with my homework. I could confide in her about my life. She would braid my hair while we laughed just for the sake of laughing. We were the type of mother and daughter that people always asked if we were sisters. We both were flattered, though for different reasons.

I was never a big fan of my blond hair. Never was, never will be. However my mother was. She was always reminding me how lucky I was to have gotten my father's hair genes as opposed to hers. She had grown up wishing she had blond hair. I, on the other hand, really couldn't give a crap what color my hair was. To me, they were just lifeless white-colored strands attached to my scalp that got tangled when I didn't brush them and greasy when I didn't wash them.

One night when she was braiding my hair, she suddenly stopped and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

"What?" I'd asked, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," she said, though I could tell it wasn't. I gave her a look. "I was just noticing what a variety you have, that's all."

"Excuse me?"

"Look at you, Annaleigh." She forced me to look at myself in the mirror, one braid undone. Or one braid done. Depended how you looked at it. "Blond hair with a tiny tint of pink in it. And God, those deep brown eyes? To die for. Face it, Anny, you've got it."

"Got what?"

"It! You've got vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate all rolled into one. I never know what I'm gonna get with you. Will it be vanilla? Or is it a chocolate day? All I know is that you're the whole damn ice cream cone, and a gorgeous one at that."

I remember feeling so safe then. So loved. Nothing could be better than that moment.

Then one day it all went to hell.

At a young age my mother had been an alcoholic. Couldn't start, couldn't stop. All she could do was drink. When my parents met, my father gave her an ultimatum. He convinced her to quit cold turkey. Apparently it had been difficult for her, but she managed to do it for my dad. For her marriage and for her life.

Once I even asked her why she had quit. She just smiled at me and said, "Your father made me see the bright side of things, that's all."

One weekend when I was fourteen, my mom went on a business trip to Las Vegas. I was surprised to discover that my father was not weary that his wife, the former alcoholic, was visiting the drinking capital of the world. Apparently, he "trusted" her.

I'd just shook my head.

Despite my dad's trust in her, she returned home drunk and officially back on the wagon. She said her bright side on life had changed and it definitely involved alcohol this time.

My dad tried to convince her otherwise, but it was clear her mind was made up for good this time. Suddenly, in just one significant weekend, my sister was gone and my life had completely changed.

"Where to this time?" my dad asked then in the truck.

I looked down at the leather seats, feeling how smooth they were, yet sensing how tough they needed to be. How tough I needed to be. I saw the broken window next to me that had never gotten redone. The chipped paint that had never gotten repainted. This stupid car that had never gotten sent to the dump. I put my hands on my knees and leaned forward, ready for the familiar lurch of the truck speeding down Cornflower Way.

"Anywhere," I said, "but here."

He nodded, then pressed the gas and together we drove off, leaving the rest of our lives behind.


	2. Act Two

Two

I sat against my tree, headphones blasting, chewing my food. Students swarmed around me, throwing footballs, laughing, flirting, eating lunch together. It was a beautiful day out; naturally the school was socializing outside, taking advantage of the occasional glimpse of sun our courtyard gets.

It was unusual for me to see such movement in my daily lunch spot. I liked this spot. I liked how everything was so quiet and unmoving, except for an occasional whisper of a branch or tweeting birds. I liked the way I felt safe, burrowed underneath the expansive tree. The way I felt sheltered, an unusual feeling in my world. But mostly, I liked the solitude of it, the feeling of being alone. Of being able to do whatever I wanted to do. Hear whatever I wanted to hear. See what I wanted to see. Think what I wanted to think.

Be who I wanted to be.

Under my tree I didn't have to be Rosalina, the drama queen. Or Annaleigh the silent actress. I could just be Annaleigh, me. It was a very significant tree, and I loved the way it made me feel.

Sunny days are rare in my small town, but when the sun visits, suddenly the entire school is soaking up the sun disturbing my solitary lunch. I woke up that morning and knew it was going to be one of those days. One of those days where I would have to watch the life I almost had, being flaunted right in front of me like a tease. A big fat joke. The world of socializing, of having friends, of feeling pretty. As close as a thought, though it remained unspoken. It's where it would always remain.

I had watched the typical scene so many times I could detect the fake laughs, the fake smiles, the fake friends. I knew the difference between a phony and the real deal, though it was usually the former. I knew all the cliques of my school, from the popular group to the science geeks to the jocks. Fortunately, or unfortunately if you were that type of person, I didn't see myself fit in anywhere in school, even in the drama club. I wasn't part of them. I came there to act and that's what I did. No fake laughing, no fake smiles, no fake befriending. I would not act like that's who I wanted to be.

It's all it was and all it would ever be—acting.

I remained where I was meant to be: sitting under my tree, blasting my headphones, chewing my food. And I was content.

"Today we start a new chapter in Rosalina's life," Mr. Mason declared to the drama department. "Rosaline has declared to Damien that she no longer wants him in her life. That she cannot stand being with him." He looked meaningfully at me. "Of course Rosalina and Damien would not be Rosalina and Damien if they stayed apart for too long. However, during their separation, our writers have thought of a twist."

We all waited, though not as anxious as he had obviously hoped.

"Rosalina is going to find a new man to be with. His name will be Marcus. Here are your new scripts," he said as he handed me mine first. "Make sure we _all_ practice our lines tonight." I rolled my eyes, taking his not-so-subtle hint.

"Won't happen again, Mr. Mason," I muttered, taking my script.

I flipped through the heavy stack of papers. I just skimmed the dialogue, but the character of Marcus seemed intriguing. Definitely a good twist.

"Who will play Marcus?" I asked.

"Me," a voice said from behind me. When I turned around my jaw dropped a foot.

"Riley will," Mr. Mason said.

I stared at him in disbelief. Riley? Riley Fillmore? Spiky hair, stubby nose, light freckles Riley Fillmore?

"Riley will play Marcus, Rosalina's new love interest," Mr. Mason confirmed, as if he was trying to rub in it in my face even more.

My eyes stayed locked with Riley's, trying to read his thoughts. What was he doing here?

One of the girls whose name I always seemed to forget raised her hand. "Um, Mr. Mason?"

"Yes, Alexandra?"

"I'm sorry, but I didn't know Riley was part of this drama department."

"I didn't even know he went to this school," her friend added.

"He is not new to school," Mr. Mason said, "though he was not here last year. He was transferred and we are lucky to have him back again. He has an excellent gift for acting and I can tell you will all be very satisfied because I know I am."

I kept staring at Riley. Since when was he an actor? Since when was he anybody?

"Okay I am going to give you all five minutes to study your lines, and then we'll go over one of the new scenes. Practice carefully," he said, eying me.

As he left the stage, the others shuffled to the backstage area as well. Everyone except for me. And Riley. There was an uncomfortable silence between the two of us once we were alone, though I could tell the connection that used to be there was struggling to resurface.

"Annaleigh," he said taking a step toward me.

I narrowed my eyes. "What are you doing here, Riley?"

He sighed, blowing air into my face. "I am going to play Marcus."

"No you aren't."

"Yes I am."

"No you aren't."

"I'm not?"

"No."

"Mr. Mason said I was."

"You're not."

"Mr. Mason will be disappointed then."

"What are you doing here, Riley?" I repeated more forcefully.

"I'm—"

"I thought I told you to stay away."

"You did."

"And?"

"I didn't." He took another step toward me. "I couldn't.

I shook my head and laughed humorlessly. "That's so like you, Riley. Always wanting what he can't have."

"I can't have you?"

"No."

"But I did."

"Note the past tense."

"You told me to stay away and I did."

"Until now," I pointed out.

"Yes," he said slowly. "But I couldn't."

I groaned. That's how it always was with Riley. Frustrating and confusing. A cycle of pointless banter and arguing.

"Just go away, Riley. I don't want you here and I don't want you to play Marcus."

"But I am."

"You're not."

He stared at me for a long moment, trying to read my expression. Trying to feel what I felt. "Do I just mean nothing to you, Annaleigh?"

"What we had does."

"Ouch," he said smiling. Obviously he read my expression wrong. He took one more step.

"Riley, what we had was nothing. It means nothing to me."

He looked at me with those smoldering green eyes. He was so close I could smell his cologne. Feel his intensity. "Does it?" he said, grabbing my hands.

"Yes."

"Does it really?"

I could feel the warmth of his hands being passed to me. The familiarity of it all made my heart do something funny. I nodded, though I felt helpless.

He stared into my eyes. "Annaleigh, just give me another chance."

"It's too late."

"It's not. Annaleigh," he pleaded, "please."

I thought hard of what my life would be like if I let him back in. I tried to remember the good times we had. The fun we had together. Reality hit me hard then. Reality of what he did to me. Of what he put me through. The things he said to me. There were no good times.

I shook my head and pulled my hands out of his, backing away. "Damn it, no. Go away, Riley."

"Annaleigh."

"Go away."

"That's not what you want."

"It is."

"It's not."

"Riley, I don't want you. Not now, not ever. Go find someone else who will let you ruin them. But it's not me. It's not."

I walked across the stage, leaving him behind. I stayed behind the curtain, waiting. Though this time I knew there would be no roses thrown or eruption of applause. The curtains would not fall together because they had never been opened. This was reality.

Forks clinked and plates were passed. Chewing was soft and thoughts were unspoken. Always unspoken. That's how it is at the dinner table. Just me and my dad. No unexpected guests, no arguing over who gets the T.V. remote, no pointless chitchat about the weather.

My father and I are alike in the way that we don't need to talk to fulfill our lives. We don't need conversation to fill the holes. We can just sit at the dinner table silently and be satisfied, not feeling awkward. We could be anywhere, be silent, and be perfectly happy. We could drive for miles, passing signs and pedestrians and small businesses, taking in our environment. The town we both never wanted to live in, but could not bring ourselves to leave. We could drive down Cornflower Way, in utter silence, but both feel the intensity of what happened, and what could still happen. My father and I don't have father-daughter problems. We get along fine, better than most. But there are some things that I could not dream about talking about with him.

Biologically, he is my father. But when you actually look at our living situations and how we operate our lifestyles, and everything we've been through together, it's really more than that. We are companions.

Dinner is a silent activity. It's a time to eat. If we have things to talk about it, we can talk about it in our own time. We don't need a specific time to talk. We eat, we pass the potatoes, we clear our plates, and we go to our respective rooms. It's become an unspoken law between us. Though most things between us are unspoken.

That's why it was a surprise that night at dinner when I said, "Dad, Riley's back."

My father had been unsuccessfully cutting his steak with just a butter knife. Instantly, he froze and looked down at the knife. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking he wished he had a sharper knife.

My dad looked up at me, his blue eyes noticeably darkening to navy. I stared right back, a silent conversation being traced between us. I could tell he wanted to know what happened, and he could tell I really didn't want to talk about it.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

I thought about it for moment. "I just thought you'd want to know why I start living in Mom's truck."

"Huh," he half-laughed and stabbed into his steak with force.

I looked at him for a long time, and I suspected he knew I was still staring at him. He had done exactly what I expected him to do. Nothing. I get my temper from my mother, whereas my father was always calm. Always did the rash thing. Sometimes I wonder how the two of them ever could have been in love. One was outspoken and loud and talkative, while the other lusted for a silent dinner.

And then there was me. Caught somewhere in the middle. My dad's blonde hair, my mom's brown eyes, my dad's almost nonexistent conversation skills, and my mother's temper. But then there was something else from my mother that was there, but undetectable.

But I could read my dad. I knew he wasn't calm. I knew there was some type of anger inside of him that was trained to be controlled. Like a dog eying the cookie jar. I knew how he felt; somewhere close to how I felt.

My father and I were always in sync, but sometimes someone walks along the way and messes with the melody. And then we have to act like everything is okay. Like it didn't just happen. We have to control our anger and put away our silent conversations.

The most important things in my small family of two are always better left unsaid.


	3. Act Three

Three

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if Riley had never entered it. Certainly not normal. Or sane. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if my mother had never gone to Las Vegas, or if she hadn't taken that first drink. Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if I hadn't moved to Cornflower Way. If my mother hadn't insisted on this location. How different would things be?

So many _what ifs_ wander in and out of my mind, sometimes it's hard to contain. It hurts my heart, if not my brain, thinking how I could have handled things differently. If we all could have handled things differently.

I lay awake at night, looking up at my bland white ceiling, thinking of the night that it happened, and the night I found out it happened. Thinking what I could have done differently. How I could have prevented it.

Sometimes I wonder if everything is my fault, and if I should just start accepting that to always be my final answer.

I let the _what ifs_ take over my brain. I let them consume all of its space and energy, until I am too exhausted to possibly take any more. Until my brain runs out of reasons to stay awake anymore. I close my eyes and the blackness surrounds me, silencing all other thoughts. I lay there on my back, thinking of nothing. My brain eventually shuts off, and the silent dreamless world envelops me.

It's how I fall asleep. It's how I've always fallen asleep. There is no other alternative. No other way I can get a solid night's sleep.

I am aware of the misery of the idea, of torturing myself so I can fall asleep. But it's how I've always done it. And if I've learned anything from living with my father, nothing changes. And if it does, you pretend nothing ever happened.

Mr. Mason stood center stage, looking out at us. We were seated in the auditorium seats listening to what he was saying. Or at least the class was. I was in my usual back row seat, except this time was different. This time I was trying not to stare at the back of Riley's head.

"You all know how these things go," Mr. Mason said. "We'll have the first rehearsals with scripts, but after that I expect the scripts to be thrown in the trash. Not literally," he said, looking at me. I heard a stifled laughter from the front of the room. I tried to maintain my facial composure. Mr. Mason would never let this go, would he?

"Mr. Mason I already know my lines," I called from the back in a clear voice.

He stopped, appearing surprised. "You do?" and when I nodded he said, "You know _all_ of Rosalina's lines?"

"Yes, Mr. Mason."

I saw Riley turn around in his seat. I skillfully avoided his gaze.

"Well," Mr. Mason said after an awkward pause. "I guess we'll all move on then."

"I guess we will," I said more to myself than to anyone else.

He cleared his throat. "Let's get started then. Annaleigh? Riley? Act two. Everyone else — backstage."

Everyone shuffled out of their seats and headed backstage. And of course Riley had to wait for me to emerge out of my backseat.

"Trying to be a teacher's pet, eh?" he joked.

I looked straight ahead. "Just trying to prove a point."

"Which is?"

I stopped in my tracks. I was really getting sick of his antics.

"What's the point?" he asked again.

For the first time I looked him in the eye. "I'm good."

He laughed, but his eyes were startled. I just smirked and walked up to Mr. Mason.

"Now," Mr. Mason declared, "we are not rehearsing the beginning of this play. It's towards the middle. As you all know, I like to start in the middle so we can build the intensity between the characters. Then, for the beginning, Annaleigh and Riley will be used to their characters being in love."

Riley elbowed me. I glared at Mr. Mason.

"This is Rosalina and Marcus's first date." He looked over at me. "I assume you know the lines to this scene?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you?" he asked Riley.

"Uhh…"

I sighed as Mr. Mason handed him a script. "Review it," he said.

"You make me look bad," Riley whispered to me.

I ignored him.

"What about me?" Scott asked, coming out of the curtains.

"What about you?"

"Well, what am I supposed to play while Rosalina is off having this other love interest?" he said, looking pointedly at Riley. "What does Damien do?"

"Damien is still in the story, but not as prominently. He and Rosalina are temporarily broken up. You are in this play, but not in this scene."

Scott thought about it for a moment. "Great. Just as Annaleigh starts actually memorizing her lines, it's not with me."

I rolled my eyes. "Such an ass," I said under my breath. Scott just smiled mockingly at me, then left.

Riley and I walked over to a table set up to look like a date at a restaurant. We sat down while we waited for Mr. Mason to get situated.

"You better know your lines," I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

"I'll get them down," he promised.

"You better."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll look like a moron."

"You didn't," he pointed out.

"I improvised. That takes skill and twelve years of training to master. You have to know your character inside and out."

"You know Rosalina?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Because. I'm an actress. I'm—"

"Good," he finished for me. "You're good."

I just stared at him, not quite knowing what to say.

"So what is Rosalina like?" he wondered.

I thought for just a moment.

"She's quiet, but carefree. And strong minded. She knows what she wants, and if what she wants becomes something she doesn't want anymore, she leaves. She finds someone else she wants, and she gets it. She never forgets anything, and although sometimes she forgives people, she knows it's never truly the same. She holds her own, and she does it with beauty and power."

"Kind of like you," Riley said, looking at me.

I stared right back, stunned he would make such a comparison.

Just then, Mr. Mason came over, clapping his hands in an excited way. "Good job, kids! You're practicing the intensity thing."

I leaned away from Riley, taken aback. Had I been looking intense?

"Okay," Mr. Mason said, clapping his hands again. "Let's start from the top of the scene. Annaleigh?" he said, motioning to me.

"Actually, Mr. Mason," I said, suddenly in a moment of panic, "I need to use the restroom."

"Okay," he said, confused. "Well, you know where it is."

I nodded and retreated backstage.

"Where're you going?" Scott asked.

"The bathroom," I said in a _duh_ sort of way.

"Oh," he said in mock disappointment. "I thought you'd come to your senses and realized that Rosalina is supposed to be in love with Damien instead of that dickhead Marcus."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. I was half sure he was joking. I just shook my head, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door behind me.

For a long time, I stared at my reflection. I stared at me. Blonde hair, brown eyes, pink cheeks. I wasn't pretty. I knew I wasn't. Rosalina was gorgeous. She had everything, she knew everything. Annaleigh was just average. Although the name was pretty, everything else preceded the bar. Nothing felt right.

I ran my hands through my long blonde hair, trying to discover the reason everyone envied it so much. Did my hair color make me a better person? A better actress? I looked at my brown eyes. What did they mean? I searched though them, like they were a tunnel into my mind. I came up with nothing. I wasn't Rosalina. I knew nothing. I let my hand fall down my right cheek, feeling the warmth beneath it.

These were all the features people were green for. The whole damn ice cream cone. So why did I feel so incomplete? Like something was missing? I knew from somewhere inside me though, that it didn't have to do with my face.

Not many people knew what went on behind the blonde hair, brown eyes, and pink cheeks. Not many people knew what I thought about some days. What thoughts were forced into my brain. What I was forced to think about, be tortured by. Not many people knew what it did to me when I thought of my mother.

I put my face into my hands, letting it fall into the place it knew so well. I would not let myself fall apart. Not here, not now, hopefully not ever. I knew that last part was a lie. It was all a lie. I looked up at myself, again, trying to pull myself together.

I smiled at the girl in front of me. She smiled back. It seemed sincere. But I could detect the flaws. I knew her eyes were sad. I knew her heart was close to shattered, close to not being repaired again. I knew what went on behind the face. The smile stayed put, looking almost believable. I sighed, and the smile fell from her face. I knew what I had to do.

It's all it was and all it would ever be — acting.

I had to act like I was okay. I had to act like I was Rosalina. More than that, I had to be Rosalina. I had to put away Annaleigh and all her misery. None of that mattered when I was on stage. All that mattered was Rosalina and her life. My life always faded in the distance when I declared myself Rosalina. No one cared about me. Not Scott, not Riley, not Mr. Mason, not my parents, and most of all, not even me.

I sighed, then left the bathroom, without another look at myself. Instead, I pictured Rosalina, and how I needed her life to be. I had to live vicariously through her. I had to be Rosalina.

I walked confidently back to the stage, ignoring Scott's comment about how long I had been in the bathroom.

"Are you ready now?" Mr. Mason asked as I sat down across from Riley.

I nodded.

"Okay. Ready and....action."

"I hope you like this restaurant," Riley said, as Marcus. "I checked to make sure it had chicken."

"That's my favorite food."

"I know."

I smiled at him, as if he had just flattered Annaleigh, not Rosalina.

"So," Marcus said."

I just stared back at him. The script said for Rosalina to repeat the so, but I ignored it. Rosalina never made the first move.

"Tell me about yourself, Rosalina."

"My favorite food is chicken."

His smile faltered. "I already know that."

I sighed, conveying frustration. Damien would have gotten the joke. I saw Mr. Mason nod from his director's chair. He understood what I meant.

"What about you?" I asked, gazing at Riley.

"What about me?"

I pretended to think. "What do you regret most about your life?"

Riley laughed. "Wow we're really diving into here, aren't we?"

Again, I ignored the script. I just stared.

He leaned forward onto the table. "The thing I regret the most…would be not having asked you out sooner."

I rolled my eyes. Either someone really corny wrote the script, or Marcus was just written to be a corny guy.

"Well," I said, returning back to character, "if you had asked me out any sooner I would have said no."

Riley pretended to be confused. "Why?"

"I wouldn't have been available."

"I see."

I took a fake sip of the empty cup sitting by my plate. The script said an awkward silence. Rosalina is not an awkward girl. She always has to be doing something.

"Rosalina," Riley said, "have you even been in a serious relationship?"

"Define serious."

"You love him."

I pretended to think about it for a moment. "No," I lied.

"That's comforting."

"Why?"

"Because maybe I'll be the first."

Okay, Marcus was definitely written to be a corny character. The writer's are better than this.

There was another awkward pause. I took another fake sip.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Sure."

We got up and some set people behind us took away the table. Normally, there'd be more of a production, but it was only the first rehearsal.

Riley took hold of my hand. "I had a really great time tonight."

"Me too."

I could feel him looking at me, so I looked up. But when I did, I wasn't looking at Marcus. I was looking at Riley. And I could see the desire in his eyes. I knew how much he wished this wasn't scripted.

Suddenly, Riley was leaning in. My eyes widened in surprise. I wracked my brain, trying to remember if there was a kiss in this scene. But I knew this scene by heart. There wasn't.

He took my face in his hands, and looked into my eyes. _No_ tried I tell him. He either didn't notice, or just flat out ignored me. I mentally sighed This was acting, not real life. I had to go back to Rosalina.

Just as his mouth was inches away from mine, I heard a voice from behind me.

"What the hell?!"

Riley dropped his hands from my face and I breathed a sigh of relief. I looked over. Of course, it was Scott.

"Scott! You interrupted rehearsal!" Mr. Mason scolded from his chair.

"Oh you mean Annaleigh and Riley's make out session?"

"Excuse me?"

"Rosalina and Marcus aren't supposed to kiss in this scene."

"So?"

I sighed. "It's called acting, Scott," I said. "Sometimes you just get caught up in the scene. You don't always have to follow the script."

"Well it wasn't supposed to happen yet. It could have thrown off the entire act."

I sighed again. "Why do you care?"

"What?"

"I need five," Mr. Mason called, muttering something about teenage drama under his breath.

"Why do you care?" I repeated to Scott.

He looked taken aback. "I don't," he said, then left.

Riley and I were silent for a moment. I hated being alone with him.

Finally, he looked at me and grinned. "You so wanted to kiss me."

I just glared at him.

"I could see it in your eyes."

"I was acting," I scoffed. "You were Marcus and I was Rosalina."

"Acting," he repeated.

I nodded stiffly.

"Okay," he said after a while. "You just keep telling yourself that."

He started to walk away, but stopped when I said, "Why did you come back?"

"What?"

"Why?"

"I told you. I couldn't stay away," he said.

"I don't believe you."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Why?"

"If you really couldn't stay away from me, you wouldn't have left in the first place."

He looked at me for a long time, considering this.

"Why did you come back?" I repeated.

"It just felt like the right thing to do."

"The right thing."

"Yes."

"If you knew anything about doing the right thing, we would not be here right now."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've never done the right thing."

"I've changed."

"I don't believe you," I said.

"You need to learn to trust, then."

"I'll learn to trust when I have a reason to."

"I don't like how things are."

"But it's how they are."

"I don't like it, though."

"So?"

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. I shook my head.

"Nothing is going to change how things are," I said. "And nothing will change what happened, and what you did. You can't take it back, no matter how much you want to."

"It's not me, though. It's you."

"Excuse me?"

"You're stubborn."

"Stop."

"It's true. It's how you've always been. And you never forgive anyone, even when it was a mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake," I said through gritted teeth. "Did you ever stop to think about me? About everything I've had to go through? Have you realized that most of it is _your_ fault?"

He just stared at me.

"Just go," I said quietly. He looked like he hadn't heard me, though. I was about to repeat myself, when he stepped away from me. Silently, he retreated down the steps and out the door.

I was quiet for a moment. Shocked and hurt. Then I heard a voice behind me.

"I guess I'm not the only ass in your life."

I turned around to find Scott.

"Guess not," I muttered.

He paused, as if finding the right words. "You okay?"

I exhaled and closed my eyes. "No and you're still an ass."

For a second I felt bad. But then I remembered I shouldn't care. He was. He just shrugged and walked away.

After a couple minutes of just standing there, I walked out too. I walked all the way home, trying not to think of the horrible day I'd had. I tried not to think of the horrible path my life had taken. Of how horrible I felt at that moment.

When I reached my house, I just climbed into the truck. My dad would find me eventually. And then we could drive off together, both silently reminiscing, and wishing we didn't have to. Both being sad, and both falling into a pool of misery over that one person. That one person we'd both loved so much.

I sat in her truck. My mother's truck. What she had left behind. What my father and I were forced look at everyday. To be reminded of the loss.

Of the terrible, terrible loss that was my mother.


	4. Act Four

Four

There was a fly on Mr. Thompson's head. It had been circulating the class for the entire period, and now chose to take care of its business on top of my Health and Life teacher's head. Whenever a fly lands, it either vomits or shits. I think that's gross. Imagine all the times a fly has landed on you; it's left fully satisfied and ready to go off again. What if humans were like that? Just living their lives with the only problem of deciding where to poop.

So simple.

Mr. Thompson walked behind his desk and the fly left his head. I saw it wander up towards the light and disappear. It never came back down. Maybe it died up there, got zapped by some electrical cord. If so, Mr. Thompson's head would be the last that fly ever did business on. Kind of sad if you thought about it.

"Annaleigh?"

My eyes focused on Mr. Thompson.

"Yes?"

"Were you listening to a word I just said?"

"No."

In any other class, I wouldn't respond at all, figuring the question was rhetorical. If the teacher was asking, it probably meant he knew I wasn't paying attention. But in Health and Life, Mr. Thompson right away taught us two things on the first day of school: Nothing is rhetorical. And two; lying is not an option. If we told the truth, we would never be punished.

"This is not an English class," he'd said that first day. "There are no right answers to life, just opinions you believe are right. If you want to space out and not listen, that's okay with me. That may just be your lifestyle. I only request that if I ask a direct question, that I get a direct answer in return. Every question and every answer has meaning, not matter how wacko or ironic they seem to be."

The class had laughed, happy they had such a laid back teacher. I had just stared at him, trying to figure out what exactly he meant. Did he not care if we learned anything? Or was this his way of teaching us what we needed to know?

"What were you thinking of?" he asked, presently.

"There was a fly on your head."

He smiled. "Is it still there?"

"No, it died."

"That's too bad," he said sympathetically. "But I'm actually talking about something relatively interesting, so it'd great for you not to befriend any more flies 'til next period, 'kay?"

I nodded, trying to smile.

"So I was talking about an upcoming project."

Normally, this was where the class would groan about doing work. But of course, everything is different in Mr. Thompson's class.

"In this hat are a couple of expressions that I have thought mean something to me. Of course, they could mean something completely different to you, which is the beauty of life. I have assigned you all partners and for the project you will share this expression — everything that relates to it. Your life, your experiences, things you want to happen… You two will keep a journal and then turn it in by the end."

"When's it due?" someone asked.

Scott snorted. He always made fun of anyone who asked that question. Maybe it's because he's so afraid of deadlines himself.

"There is no deadline," Mr. Thompson replied. "At least no deadline written in stone. When I feel it's time I'll ask for you to turn it in. In life, when things are really important, you don't want them to end. But more importantly, you don't know when they'll end."

He let that sink in, though I was not surprised. I learned not to be surprised anymore in Mr. Thompson's class.

"First I will pass out the name of your partner, who I have picked. Then once you all have read it and gone over the _oohs_ and _ahhs_ of 'oh my god _he's_ your partner?' you can come up as a team and pick your expression from the hat. 'kay?"

He took our silence as a consent and started walking around, placing a folded piece of paper on each desk.

I unfolded mine and read the inside.

_Scott Fields._

I looked over at him. Mr. Thompson had just handed him his piece. Scott opened his and read the inside. He held it there for a while, then looked up to meet my gaze, a slow grin creeping onto his face.

Shit.

Scott got up from his desk and walked over to me.

"Hello partner."

"Hi," I said, keeping it simple.

"So we're partners," he said, stating the obvious.

"Guess so."

"You know what this means, right?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"This means," he said slowly, "that not only do I get to be an ass in drama, but now I get to be an ass in Health and Life."

"You were already an ass in Health and Life," I told him.

His grin widened. "At a closer distance," he answered.

"Scott? Annaleigh?" Mr. Thompson called over to us. "Come pick your expression!"

Scott looked at me with a teasing face. "Come on, Annaleigh."

I sighed and got up.

Mr. Thompson looked at my pissed expression and Scott's teasing one, and laughed. "This should be fun."

I groaned. It was like he'd planned this. I reached in and grabbed a slip of paper from the very bottom.

_Love changes…fear changes._

"What does it say?" Scott asked.

I handed it to him.

"What the hell does that mean?"

I shrugged, since I didn't know either. Actually, that was a lie. I knew what it meant, but I didn't know what it meant to me. And after a few months in Mr. T's class, I knew that's what really mattered.

Mr. Thompson laughed. "That's the point of the project. Figure out what it means."

"Whatever, dude," Scott said.

I looked at Mr. Thompson and pleaded him with my eyes to switch my partner.

He just smiled. "'kay dude," he replied back.

And then the bell rang.

"What do you want to do, Annaleigh?" my mother had asked me one time.

We were in my bedroom, not really talking. Just sitting there, enjoying each other's company.

I remember shrugging my shoulders, not completely understanding the question. I was probably around four or five.

"You don't know?" she exclaimed, incredulously.

I don't remember what or how exactly I responded to this. Looking back, it was probably rhetorical. All I remember is her dragging me to the full length mirror in my bedroom, forcing me to look at myself. I saw what I always saw and would forever see — blonde hair, brown eyes, and pink cheeks.

"What do you see yourself doing?" she wondered, looking down at me.

I had closed my eyes, wondering what was supposed to come of this. What my mother was even asking me about.

And then I saw it. I got it.

Suddenly, I saw a curtain. I saw a stage. I saw an audience, sitting on the edge of their seats waiting for my next word. I saw bright blinding lights. I saw myself pretending to be someone I was not, but not getting called fake for it. And I had never witnessed any sort of performance that was similar to the image in my head, but somehow I just knew.

It's all it was and all it would ever be — acting.

But for some reason that day, I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to tell my mom, because I wasn't sure of what I had just imagined. Instead, I walked out of the room. I went down the stairs and into the kitchen, leaving my mother there, wondering.

We stayed there, in our respective areas of the house, both of us wondering. That's where it all began. But not the acting.

It's where the wondering began.

"S'how d'you wanna do this?" Scott asked me after school that day. I paused only for a second. It always took me a couple moments to decipher his sentences; he's not the world's best speaker.

I shrugged.

"Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?" he demanded.

"Am I?"

He nodded.

"Well then," I said, looking down at the pink journal Mr. Thompson gave us. "I think we should both write down what we think it means in general, like, to anyone."

Scott looked down at it. "Why the hell's it pink?"

I tried not to laugh at his disgusted expression, though I was wondering the same thing. "Maybe to add color?"

"Ew."

"Yeah."

He looked at me. "I guess f'r the two've us, Mr. T. shoulda given us a black notebook."

"Guess so," I answered. I thought it was interesting how he said the "the two of us," like he knew me in some way that connected us.

He moved the pink journal over to me. "Why don't you start?"

I smirked, knowing he had nothing to write about.

I flipped over the first page, dated it, and wrote _Annaleigh._ I could feel Scott hovering over me, though. I sighed and looked up.

"What?" he asked.

"I can't write with you looking at me. It makes me uncomfortable."

He grinned. "Good."

I sighed. "Just go, please?"

"Where should I go?"

"I dunno. Go catch up with one of your girlfriends."

His grin widened. "I know what you mean by catch up. But unfortunately, I'm not with Mary Anne anymore."

"Pity," I said. "Then go find your drug dealer. I'll come get you when I'm done."

This caught him off guard. He stood there, lingering, trying to find out if I was kidding or not. I didn't if this meant he actually did have a drug dealer.

Finally, he just muttered a "fine" and left.

I sighed, getting back to work.

_Love changes…fear changes._

I heard Scott's voice in my head. "What the hell does that mean?" And I could hear Mr. Thompson's voice: "It means whatever you want it to mean." What did I want it to mean? What did others want it to mean?

_Cynthia Vaughn: maiden name Palmer, alternative name Mom. What had happened to her? What had happened to the people she loved, and loved her? Once they had been so close, almost sisters, and then everything fell apart, like a priceless glass figure smashing to the ground. Irreparable, and completely irreplaceable. _

_How much of it was her fault, and how much by the influence of others? What events led to the day that changed so many people's lives forever? Does anybody know everything?_

_So many questions left unanswered. So many hearts left broken. And for what? For nothing. At the end, everything is always nothing._

_But could someone love like that again? Is it possible to open yourself up like that, only to be wondering if someone will come along with that damn bottle of addiction and ruin everything in your life? Why love someone if it only leads to brokenness, and most of all: fear?_

_Love leads to fear. But does it change? The love is still there, just fear has been added to it. But is both of them together more dangerous than love never existing?_

I put my pencil down and called for Scott. He came running in, putting his cell phone away in his pocket.

"Done?"

"Done," I replied.

"Awesome, man."

I raised my eyebrows. Man?

He laughed. "Sorry, _Annaleigh._"

I sighed. "Just write please.

"Okay," he said, picking up the journal and turning to leave.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Home…" he said in that _duh_ voice.

"Why?"

"To write…"

"Why not here?"

"Because I don't like it here."

"Then why did we meet here?"

"Because you said we should."

"You don't have to do whatever I say."

He smiled, a teasing smile but I could tell there was some sincerity. "Have you met yourself?" He just laughed and walked away. "You can have it after the weekend!" he called over his shoulder.

I sat back down at the now-empty table. _Have _I met myself?

There was only one person in the world who had really met me, had really known me. Only one other time had I thought someone would come close to that proximity. And that had been the hugest mistake of my life.


	5. Act Five

Five

A family was moving onto Cornflower Way, across the street from my dad and me. They had two sons, a fourteen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old, and a daughter who was my age — seventeen years. Of course, this information was not discovered by my family's nonexistent welcoming committee, but from our next door neighbor.

I have known Candy since my parents and I drove down Cornflower Way for the first time when I was eleven. Taped across our front porch was a poster that read, "Welcome to the neighborhood, Whoever You Are!" Naturally, Candy herself was standing there with the most disgusting-looking (and tasting, I later found out) brownies I'd ever seen. Among her was a couple other families from the area with their kids and welcome treats, but I could really only focus on Candy.

Candy looked about early thirties. She had bright red hair piled on top of her head that I couldn't decide was fake or not. It was the type of hair that you could just tell reflected off her personality and could make a statement without having to blink an eye. Her face was pale and her lips wore bright red lipstick that matched her hair. It was hard to tell if the crinkle lines by her eyes were an effect from smiling so much or major plastic surgery. I decided a little bit of both. She had wide hazel eyes and big white teeth that were flashed too many times for such a short period of time. From first impressions, she seemed like the type of person who would always smack their gum while talking.

"Welcome!" she cried before I had even stuck a leg out of the truck.

My dad slammed the door — there really is no other way to close a truck door — and looked over the hood at my mother. She wasn't smiling, but you could tell from the look in her eye that she was amused. I got out and slammed the door, as well. Candy did not seem like the type of person I would usually get along with. I preferred quieter people, though my mother was always an exception.

"Come on, Annaleigh," my mother whispered. "Don't be rude."

So the three of us walked up, my father and I feeling uncomfortable and my mother — well we never knew.

"Hi, I'm Cynthia," my mother said as we approached them. "This is my husband Grant and my daughter Annaleigh."

"I'm Candy!" Candy cried. "Candy Lopez."

"Candy!" my mother exclaimed. "What an unusual name."

"Lopez," my dad murmured. "You don't look Spanish."

She laughed and rolled her eyes to the sky. "Yeah I married this Mexican guy for, like, a day. He had air conditioning on this really hot summer and mine was broken. But then when September came and he proposed, I was like, 'Whoa!' But the damn bastard got me drunk so of course I had to say yeah. Gotta love the booze, eh? Anyways, so I just kept the last name 'cause it gives me, like, intrigue, dontcha think?"

My mother had laughed politely while my dad eyed me. Candy noticed this and directed her attention toward me.

"Oh dang, I'm sorry. I usually don't tell PG-13 stories to li'l kids when I first meet them. I save that for later, hun," she winked at me. My dad had shifted uneasily.

"So what's your name, li'l girl?"

"Annaleigh," I'd answered. Her radiant red hair intimidated me.

"Annaleigh," she repeated. "What a dang pretty name! And how old are you, Annaleigh?"

"Eleven," I said in the same voice as before.

"Ah what a nice age. You're passed all the cryin' and crap but not yet at the drugs and alcohol stage." She laughed and leaned in real close. "Just so you know, you can always come to Candy for advice. I ain't your parents, so I don't pass no judgment on all the shit those teenagers do. So just wait, li'l Annaleigh. Candy is always here, and she's always sweet."

I don't remember how I reacted to that. I probably thought what she meant by drugs was the medicine kind. I knew what she meant by alcohol though, and I knew that I wasn't going to need her help in that department.

She then introduced us to everyone else crowded on our new porch, whose names I instantly forgot. When they all left, Candy lingered for only a second.

"It was very nice to meet you, Grant and Cynthia."

"You too," my mother responded.

"And of course you, li'l Annaleigh. 'Member what I said earlier. You can always come to me whenever you'd like. I'm just three steps away."

And I did come. But not because I wanted to at first. My parents both worked excessively, so after school I would go to Candy's house and do my homework. Although I hated to admit it, I loved spending time with Candy. Unlike the other girls at my school, she wasn't exhausting to be with. She talked like a lunatic, but it was enough for the both of us. She would tell me all sorts of stories that I still am not sure are true or not. But I loved to listen to them, nonetheless. In reality, she was my only friend. And I was truly okay with that.

I went to her house under obligation for three years, until I was fourteen. After my mom left, I needed to be with Candy more than I had ever before. But I needed to be with my dad even more. I had to put what I had to do before what I wanted to do.

But I would go to Candy's whenever I could. If my dad went to work or he had errands to run, I would sneak some time with Candy. She knew what happened with my mom, though she never talked about it. Half the time, I wondered if she really knew. But then sometimes as I would be watching T.V., she would look at me, her red hair seeming to droop with sympathy, and I could tell she knew.

In a way, Candy was my best friend. But as my mom started to drift out of my life even more, she really seemed like my alternate mother. I didn't know if I should be upset or content by that. It was a strange situation. My biological mother had been my mother, but also my best friend. And now Candy was my best friend, but like a mother to me.

And the saddest part was that Candy knew she was my only friend. She knew because she never asked. The only time Candy asks is when she doesn't know something. And since there's no reason for her to believe that I do have any friends, it was obvious. At first I thought it would be weird for her, knowing that her neighbor thought of her as a best friend. But just like she has been trying to teach me for as long as I've known her, nothing is too weird for her. Her stories from college prove that.

I could tell that Candy wanted me to make friends, though. She wants me to be happy and I am grateful, but making friends and maintaining them isn't how I live my lifestyle. It's just not.

My thoughts were confirmed when I heard the familiar unsynchronized knocks of Candy Lopez at our door. It was early on a Saturday morning, but I was awake as always. And Candy knew that.

I had barely opened the door when I heard her speak.

"Giiiirl, Anny, you will not believe it."

I shifted my weight to my left foot and looked down at her. She was at least two inches shorter than me and two times the personality. "Why do you talk so ghetto? You're not black."

"Not that you know. I could pull a Michael Jackson on everyone. Gotta think 'bout that one, hun. And you ask me that, like, everyday."

I just half-smiled.

"Anyhoo…I got news!"

"Yeah?"

"You know the for-sale sign on the lawn of the Row-Row's old house?"

The 'Row-Rows' were actually the Rodowskys. They weren't Candy's favorite people.

"What about it?"

"It's gone! Like, freaking _poof! _So of course I went to check it out."

"Naturally."

"And there's people living there!"

"No kidding."

"Well not really. Not yet. They're movin' all their crap in right now. But the mom, who by the way seems like she has a stick up 'er ass, says they'll be moved in by, like, this afternoon."

"Cool."

"Cool? It's freaking awesome!"

"'kay now you sound like a teenager."

"I'm a teenage Michael Jackson. Damn it's like Halloween. Anyways. So they have two dudes, a fourteen year old and an eighteen year old, who by the way looks kinda hot, and a girly who is your age! Her name's Anna. And you're comin' with me right now to meet her!"

"Candy, I can't. I'm wearing sweats."

"Girl you gotta think I'm stupid to think that's gonna be your lame-ass excuse. You live in those sweats, I swear to Gee. You're just bein' your normal grumpy self and you don't wanna be social. Well that's the price you pay for bein' friends with Candy Lopez. Now we're goin' over there to meet Anna Trueman and you're coming too with or without the damn sweats. I mean you can go in your panties but that'll make a dang impression and you're really not that type of person."

I sighed and said, "Let's just go."

We crossed the street together and she pounded on the door.

The door swung open and a woman with straight shoulder length hair wearing an ugly black suit appeared. Candy was right. Stick up her ass.

"You're back," she stated, not even trying to hide her non-enthusiasm.

"You bet I am, Lauren. And I brought Annaleigh Vaughn from across the street. She's the same age as your li'l girl. I thought they should meet."

Lauren just sighed. "Awwww-nuuuhh!" she called.

That's how she said Anna's name. Awwww-nuuuhh. Like they were British. Candy and I exchanged a look.

"What, Mom?" a voice came from upstairs. It was high-pitched, like she was talking through a helium balloon and it was only slightly wearing off.

"Annaleigh from across the street is here to meet you."

"Just send her up, Mom!"

Lauren sighed again and looked at me. "That girl is impossible. You can go up, but watch the paint. It's fresh."

I turned away from her and headed up the stairs. Candy and Lauren started talking. It looked like they were already starting to get in a fight. This house seemed like a bad omen for Candy.

"Umm…Anna?" I called.

"Follow my voice," she answered. How could I not?

I took a left and ran into a big old pile of barf. Actually, it wasn't barf yet. But give me five seconds in Anna's room.

"Holy shit," I said. I was in the doorway, afraid to walk in.

Her entire room was swallowed up by the pink parade. And it wasn't just that her bed was pink and she had some pink furniture. No. She had twinkling pink lights all around her ceiling and a flickering pink disco ball on her dresser. There was a pink rug by her bed and pink posters and decorations all on her pink walls. I never even knew there were so many shades of pink that existed. I could feel the cold pizza I had for breakfast moving up.

She was sitting on her bed, folding clothes. I found it hard to believe she didn't have to lie down from just sitting in this place.

She smiled over at me. "Too much?"

I swallowed. "A little bit."

Anna laughed. "Really, it's not an obsession. I just really like pink."

"Uh…yeah. I can kinda tell."

"It gets better if you actually come in. You get used to it after a while."

"I don't think that's possible," I said, but came in anyways. I closed the door behind me and sat in the pink chair in the corner. I felt like a human lollipop.

"And it's _Awwww-nuuuhh_," she said.

"Excuse me?"

"My name," she replied. "It's not aiiyy-nuhhh. It's awwww-nuuuhh."

"Why?"

"Anna is too boring. I wanna be different, you know?"

I knew. God, did I know.

"Your name is so pretty," she said. "I like Annaleigh. It's unique. I like that."

I nodded but didn't respond. I still felt a little like throwing up.

"So you don't like pink?"

I shook my head. "God, no."

"What colors do you like, then?"

I thought about it for a moment. "I don't really make statements with colors. They're just there, is what I think, I guess."

Anna shrugged as she folded another pink dress. "I guess that's the half empty way to look at it."

"I guess."

"Omigod I love your hair though. It's so blonde and straight and long. I would kill for your hair." She looked down at her own wavy brown hair and pouted. If only we could trade.

"I guess," I said again.

"So you don't really give a crap about your hair?"

"Not really."

There was a slight pause, and then, "I knew it! You're one of _those_ girls."

"Excuse me?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. "Those girls who are totally DDG."

"DDG?"

"DDG," she said. "Drop dead gorgeous."

"Oh," I said, feeling uncomfortable.

"You're one of those girls who are drop dead gorgeous and they don't even know it. They just hide in the corner and let their gorgeousness go to waste. I mean, there are plenty of girls who are less fortunate than you are that would kill for your hair, your face, your eyes, and you don't care."

She paused and was silent for a moment. Then she got a second wind. "You're quiet, too. You're the mysterious type where each word is like a prize. You don't chit chat, and I bet you have a dark past too. That's not why you're so quiet though. You're quiet 'cause you don't believe you're DDG. I bet you don't have any friends, and personally I think that's a damn shame. People have probably asked you to be friends, or part of their ultra-exclusive cliques, but you turned them down. You're too good for that crap, too pretty. You sit there, just soaking up your honest-to-gosh gorgeousness and you don't even know it."

I was silent as her last words hung there. I found it weird how she could make such an assumption after just talking to me for two minutes.

"And you're an actress, too," she added.

I could feel my eyes widen as I sat there, stunned. Who was this girl? She just sat there, folding her third pink dress so far. Finally, I stuck out my palm.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Tell me if I'll marry rich."

She smiled. "Really, I'm not a fortune teller. I only state what I see and the truth. And I know that's the truth."

I sighed and leaned back against the chair and looked up at the pink twinkly lights.

"Yeah," I said. "It is."

A silence settled upon us. I closed my eyes and tried to mediate. It wasn't working. I could hear Candy's voice downstairs. Dishes were clinking angrily, but I couldn't tell what they were arguing over. It was probably something simple, like flowers. Candy is not a complicated woman. You either love her or hate her. I had a feeling the same went for Anna.

I just really hated her room.

Anna looked at me with an incomprehensible smile. "What're you doing over there?" she said. "Come help me put these clothes away. I've been doing it all day and it's _such_ a bore."

Anna is a talker.

The very next day she showed up on my doorstep with a cup of coffee in her hand, her long hair pulled into a loose braid.

"Hi, Annaleigh!"

"Uh…hi, Anna," I said. "Did we have plans to do something?"

"Nope," she said, stepping inside. "But that's the great thing about being neighbors. You don't need to invite yourself places. You can just show up and it doesn't matter!"

"Right," I said. "Doesn't matter."

"So I brought over my school schedule. Since tomorrow's my first day of school, even though it's already October, I want to know all the routes. And I thought, who better than Annaleigh Vaughn to show me?"

"Who better?" I amended, though I could think of five better people on the spot. "I'll get my schedule, too. You can come on up."

She nodded and followed me up the stairs. We walked into my room and I went into my dresser drawer to retrieve my schedule.

"It's so organized," she observed.

"I don't have a lot of stuff."

"Or a lot of color," she added.

I half-laughed, humorlessly. "Story of my life."

She laughed, too, but I could tell she didn't know what I meant. She looked down at her schedule. "So who do you have for homeroom?" she asked.

"Miss McCafferty."

She squinted her eyes as she read it, then squealed. "Me too!"

I looked over at her. I hoped we didn't have any more classes together, just for the sake of my ears.

"Then," I continued, "I have chemistry, calculus, gym, and Health and Life."

"Gym with Mr. Peters and Health and Life with Mr. Thompson?"

I nodded. Another squeal.

"Lunch," I said. "And don't scream because our entire grade has lunch together."

She just nodded, smiling.

"Then, English, history, and drama."

She took my schedule and looked it over. "Hmm… nothing in the afternoon. Why does it say drama twice?"

"Because I have it B period, too. After school."

"Man, you must be dedicated."

"I guess."

"Why aren't you taking a foreign language?"

"I have a partial acting scholarship at a college that doesn't require any foreign languages. And since I'm taking B period they see I'm 'dedicated' as you would say, and think it's not necessary."

"That's cool! What college?"

"Juilliard."

"Damn! That's like _the_ school."

I nodded. I was reminded of that every day.

"What's it like to be an actor?" she wondered, handing me back my schedule.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, do you do plays? Or is it more of a series of characters? Are you the main character? Are you, like, _in_ the system?"

I sighed. Too many questions. She took a sip of coffee in anticipation. "Yes, we have plays and it's a series of plays."

"What are they about?"

"It's a love story between Rosalina and Damien."

"Such soap opera names! And let me guess. You play Rosalina."

I smiled. She was good. "Yeah."

"Who plays Damien?"

"You don't know him. His name's Scott. Oh he's in our Health and Life class."

"Is he hot?"

I didn't know how to respond, so I just said, "He's an ass."

She smiled. "Details, details."

"We're actually doing a project with each other. Which reminds me, I have to call him and see how he's doing. Do you mind?"

"Of course not. But put him on speaker. I have a gift from God that I can tell if the person's hot just from hearing their voice."

"From God," I repeated.

"He thinks I'm special."

"Of course."

I pulled out my cell phone, punched in his number, and hit the speaker phone button. It rang a few times. Then I heard a click, a bang, and a _shit_.

"Damn it, Annaleigh. I was sleeping!"

I looked at the digital clock. "It's noon."

"Exactly!"

I looked over at Anna. "Hot!" she whispered-shouted.

"What was that?" Scott said.

"Nothing," I said, shooting Anna a look. "I'm calling to see how the project is coming along."

"You're checking up on me?"

"Yeah."

"You don't think I did it."

"Nope."

"How do you know I haven't?"

"'Cause I know you and you haven't."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yeah."

"Well I wouldn't be."

"Why?"

"Because sometimes people can surprise you."

"So you did it?"

"Nope."

I sighed. "You're impossible. Just get it done, okay?"

"The notebook's pink, Annaleigh. I feel like a chick writing in it."

This brought a smile out of Anna.

"It's not like the pages are pink. Just open it up and you'll never notice."

He moaned and I could tell he wanted to go back to sleep. "Whatever, dude," he said, and then disconnected.

I sighed and closed my phone shut too. Anna was sitting on my bed, her eyes wide.

"He is _hot_," she said.

"Whatever, dude," I said, mimicking Scott's tone.

She smiled. "And he likes you."

I looked at her, shocked and repulsed.

"See there you go again," she said. "You don't know your DDG-ness. And you don't know when boys are totally into you, like Scott is."

I shook my head. "Scott is an annoying rodent. He's not capable of actually liking someone, unless it's for their boobs."

"Well then he must really like your boobs 'cause he is totally into you."

"You only heard his voice while he was half asleep, for two seconds. How could you possibly get so much information?"

"I told you," she said, taking another sip of coffee and looking up. "A gift from God."


	6. Act Six

Six

Anna showed up on my doorstep bright and early on Monday morning. And she was exactly that. Bright and early.

"Anna," I said, my voice cracking, "you're here early. Like, forty five minutes early." I was still in my sweat pants and was eating a banana for breakfast. She, on the other hand, looked fully prepared for the New York City lifestyle that just survived a pink hurricane. So much pink that if I had been living there, I would _not_ have survived. I would have had to hide in my basement and even then, there would be no escape.

Anna looked at her phone clock. "It's not 8:25?"

I shook my head.

She groaned. "Bitch."

"'Scuse me?"

She stepped inside and stormed to the kitchen table where I had been peacefully eating my breakfast in solitude just ten seconds ago.

"My _mother_! She knew I was gonna be late so she _reset_ my clock on my phone so I would be early!"

"Wow."

She started pressing buttons on her phone. "How did she even do it? I don't effing know. Yeesh. I don't even know how to put this thing on speaker. She must have been pretty dang determined. And she just sat there while I picked out my outfit and did my hair. She even made me freaking scrambled eggs! And she _never_ cooks. Ever!"

"Must've surprised you."

"Yeah. And _then_ she wished me good luck on my first day. Can you _believe _that?"

I shook my head, even though I could.

"She always does this," she ranted. "She manipulates me so she can get what she wants. Well not this time, hun! Let's be late, okay?"

"No can do."

"Why not?"

"Julliard, remember?"

"I thought you were on scholarship."

"I still have an image to maintain. It's not definite."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

She sighed. "My mother is a manipulative bitch! She doesn't understand the mechanics of life."

I just nodded absentmindedly.

"Mothers just like to do that, huh?"

I didn't know what to say to this.

"What's your mom like?"

I looked up. "What?"

"Well, I mean, is she controlling like my mom?"

"Uh…I don't know." Ladies and gentleman: my brilliant response.

"What do you mean?"

Annaleigh Vaughn, you are under a partial acting scholarship for Julliard University. Start acting like it.

"Oh. She's not really around much. She's a real businesswoman."

"Lucky," she said. "It must be so nice to not have a constant figure in your life nagging you about every little thing."

"Oh yeah," I murmured, not even sure if she could hear me. "So nice."

Anna sat at my kitchen table for the rest of the morning while I got dressed and ready, which consisted all of a brush and un-clashing colors. That's really all my mornings were about.

We departed from my house early, which Anna pouted about, but that didn't prevent her from talking the whole way to school.

"I'm so excited!" she exclaimed. "What are the girls like?"

"The girls?"

"You know. The students with X chromosomes?"

"Oh. They're normal girls."

"Yeesh, don't blind with all your talkativeness."

"What?"

"Expand, Annaleigh!"

"There's nothing to expand about. They're just normal high school girls."

"Yeah but normal is different in lots of different locations. For example, my normal is full of words and sentences that mean shit to everyone else. Your normal may be the everyone else that my words and sentences mean shit to. Or it could be something entirely different, I honestly dunno. Now tell me what the girls are like."

I sighed. "They're full of gossip and cliques and _ohmigods_."

"Oh, I see now."

"What?"

"They're not your friends—"

"Nope."

"—but they _could_ have been."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she started, "you arrive at school, all nervous probably, but projecting your DDG-ness nonetheless. They see your blonde hair and flawless face, and they think, _Duh, she's a no-brainer._ And like that," she snapped her fingers, "you're in."

I was already shaking my head, but she ignored me. "That's what they wanted you to be though. They wanted you to be all bitchy and _ohmigod!_ but that shit didn't float your boat. You knew what you wanted, so you dissed them like a cheerleader dissing a nerd. And now," she said, flicking an invisible piece of lint off her shirt, "they pretend to hate you. But they all secretly wish you'll change your mind and join their sorority-like group."

I stopped walking.

"What?" she wondered.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"It's creepy."

She laughed. "Don't you just love God?" Interesting yardstick she was using…

"I thought your gift from God was that you can tell who's hot from hearing their voice."

"He gave me two gifts."

"Wow."

"Yeah, he loves me."

"I bet."

"So just that we're clear," she said, "we're not friends with _the girls_."

"Well you can be friends with anyone you want to be."

"So who _are_ we friends with?" she asked, ignoring me.

"We aren't."

"We aren't?"

"No."

"Well that's too bad."

I shrugged. I didn't really think so.

"So what about the Y chromosomes?"

I sighed. "Nothing really. They're mainly just…there."

"God gimme a shovel."

"'Scuse me?"

"I feel like every time I ask you something, I have to dig deep inside you to find the answer. Even when I asked you what your favorite color is. _Oh I don't really make a statement in colors_," she imitated my voice. I rolled my eyes.

"And they're not 'just there,'" she said, using air quotes. "What about Scott?"

"Scott?"

"Yeah. The hot one."

"You haven't even met him yet."

"Honey, that man is hotter than the sun."

"Man?" I snorted.

"Oh yes."

"He is _not_ hot."

"Of course he is," she said, matter-of-factly.

"His personality sucks."

"I'm sure."

"He never brushes his hair."

"The grungy look. Very…Rob Pattinson."

"He's an annoying rodent."

"We've established that."

"He's overconfident."

"Keep going…"

"He never does his homework."

"When does anyone do their homework?"

"He eats cheesy puffs then wipes the cheese on his jeans."

"Uh huh."

"He smiles weird."

Anna just smiled at me.

I sighed in defeat. "He's hot."

"I knew it!"

"But all that other stuff is true. I hate him."

"Okay," she said in a disbelieving tone.

I just rolled my eyes.

"So is there anyone else in the picture?" she wondered.

"Any other Y chromosomes, you mean?"

"Yes," she said, tugging on her hair.

My mind instantly skipped to Riley. He wished he was in the picture, like fully in it. And as much as he wished he was, I wished he wasn't. I needed him out of my life, for my head and for my heart. I didn't know how to answer the question because Riley was, without a doubt, in the picture. Just not in the one Anna was talking about.

Luckily, we were at the school at that time so I didn't have to answer the question. Unfortunately, though, I had a feeling that wasn't going to be the last time this conversation came up.

"So is Ms. McCafferty nice?" Anna asked as we walked into our shared homeroom.

I stared at the messy, but teacher-less, desk in the front of the room.

"She's…well…you have to make your own opinions."

"What do you mean?"

I dropped my backpack down by my desk and said, "You'll see."

Anna sat down next to me and shrugged.

Ms. McCafferty was a character. Literally. She has a hobby of going to parties with caricature artists and making them draw cartoons of her.

"I like seeing what each person thinks of me when they think of cartoons," Ms. McCafferty said when someone asked about all the drawings around the room. "I see myself in all these perspectives. And what's cool is that each one is different, but they all look like me."

I never looked at a caricature drawing the same ever again.

The bell rang and still no teacher, making Anna shifted uncomfortably in her seat. I just sat there. If Ms. McCafferty walked in right then, I'd be surprised, for it'd be the earliest she arrived to school all year.

"Where is she?" Anna wondered.

I shrugged. "Probably getting a coffee."

"Are all the teachers like this?"

"No. Just Ms. McCafferty."

"See? We could have been late!" Anna insisted.

"I guess so," I said, though I knew we couldn't have been. Somehow, my father would have found out. Bring on the silence.

Some students pulled out homework they forgot to do last night. Some took out their cell phones and others reapplied makeup. One couple started making out in the corner and people started to stare.

"That's disgusting," Anna murmured under her breath.

I ignored it all as usual. It was disgusting all right — disgusting how all this seemed to be normal for me. How I'd gotten used to this classroom and what everyone did before Ms. McCafferty arrived, late as always.

Finally, about ten minutes late, Ms. McCafferty sauntered in through the doors, her bag almost getting caught on the door handle and her hair blowing behind her. She always made an entrance, though it was usually the same one every day.

"Sorry I'm late everyone! Put the makeup away and finish writing your last sentences. Oh and Steph and Brian? Save it for later. It's homeroom time!"

Disgustingly normal.

Students groaned and shuffled back to their desks, closing binders and screwing the tops on mascara tubes. Anna looked at me and I looked back. I knew what she was thinking.

"We only have ten minutes left, thanks to a terrible dog incident, but we're the masters at multi-tasking, aren't we?"

The class murmured their consent, though I knew they weren't thinking in terms of school.

"So our first order of business is a great one! We have a new student!"

This brought a smile to Anna's face.

"Anna Trueman? Next to Miss Annaleigh Vaughn? Would you like to come up here and introduce yourself?"

Anna's grin widened as she made her way to the front of the room. I cringed, knowing what was about to happen, even though I had known Anna for less than forty-eight hours.

"It's _awwww-nuuuhh_," Anna said.

"Pardon?" Ms. McCafferty asked, tilting her head to the left.

"It's not _aiyyyyy-nuuhhhh_. It's _awwww-nuuuhh_," Anna repeated.

Ms. McCafferty looked only slightly startled. "Well okay, then." She wiped her hands on her long blue skirt. I wonder what happened with the dog. "I'm glad there's someone in this classroom who has a personality that doesn't involve their _ass_."

The class laughed and so did Anna as she continued to talk about herself and where she came from. The class actually seemed genuinely interested. Of course, Anna was the type of person who was generally liked by everyone.

The same ritual continued for the rest of the morning, with or without the ass comment. Anna made sure all her teachers and classmates knew the correct pronunciation of her name.

When we walked into Health and Life together, I was exhausted, and it was only fourth period. We got there before the bell rang, so most students were still in the halls. Unfortunately, Scott Fields was not among them.

"Who's this?" Scott asked as soon as he saw Anna.

I sighed. "Scott this is Anna Trueman. She's my neighbor and is new. Anna this is Scott Fields. He's in this class and he's an ass."

"My, Annaleigh. I love how fond you are of me."

I rolled my eyes.

"Wait…you're Scott?" Anna asked.

He nodded, his eyes looking her up and down.

_Oh my god!_ Anna mouthed to me, taking in his sultry look and almost-black hair. _Hot!_ I rolled my eyes again.

"Anna you should probably go talk to Mr. Thompson," I said, looking at her meaningfully.

"Right," she said, giving me a final look. "It was very nice to meet you, Scott."

He smiled. "Likewise, Anna Trueman."

We watched her walk up to Mr. Thompson and hand him a slip saying she was a new student. She flipped her brown hair back and laughed.

The bell rang and I went to my seat, away from Scott. Anna came and sat in the empty desk behind me.

"He is smokin'" she said, leaning in and looking at Scott across the room.

"Remember," I said, staring straight ahead. "Personality sucks."

"Like anyone really gives a damn."

"Okay class. Listen up!" Mr. Thompson said. "Everyone is to go work with their partners now. Anna, since you're new and obviously don't have a partner, you can come up with me and talk about an alternate assignment. Get to work!"

Scott got up and sat down in the desk next to mine.

"So _awwww-nuuuhhhh_," he said, smiling.

"She thinks it makes her more interesting."

"Well she's definitely interesting."

"What does that mean?"

"It seemed like she knew me, somehow."

"Well obviously she didn't," I responded.

"Or like she had _heard_ 'bout me," he continued.

I rolled my eyes. "Please."

"What did you tell 'er about me?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Of course you did. She looked like a little puppy dog waiting for a treat."

"You're hardly a treat."

"Just describin' what I saw."

"Speaking of which…did you write in the journal?"

"How is that a speaking of which?"

"Excuse me?"

"When you say 'speaking of which,' it means something you were talking about is related to what you were transitioning to."

"Did you buy a dictionary over the weekend?"

"Come on, Annaleigh."

I sighed. "If you must know, I may have _mentioned_ to her that we are working on a project in Health and Life together."

He grinned. I groaned.

"You know you love me," he said.

"Shut up."

He continued grinning at me.

"You look like an idiot. Get out the journal so I can read what you wrote."

"You mean the _pink_ journal," he said, pulling it out of his backpack and placing it on the desk. "I was confused about what you wrote about."

I stared at him.

"Was it about you?"

"No."

"It said 'Cynthia Vaughn,' though. Was she your mom?"

"Was?"

"You know what I mean."

"My mother is alive," I said, even though I knew that wasn't what he was really asking about.

"Okay…" He waited for a response, but when he didn't get one, he said, "So what did you mean?"

"What do you mean, 'what did I mean?'"

"Did that really happen?"

"Did what really happen?"

"What you wrote about?"

"What did I write about?"

"Jesus."

I cocked my head to the left.

He sighed. "Annaleigh Vaughn you are one of the best actresses I know. You play Rosalina better than anyone could. But you are the worst at playing yourself."

I just stared at him, shocked, and he stared back at me. I could tell he meant it, too. That's what pissed me off.

There was a long moment of silence, his words hanging in the air. Then I said, "Give me the damn notebook."

He handed me the pink notebook without breaking eye contact. I didn't know what to do with it, though. It's like he had me in a trance.

Finally, I said, "Well I can't read it with you standing there."

"Jeez! You're so picky. You have to read and write and do everything alone."

"It's how I am."

"You're right," he said with an undetectable look in his eye. He got up and looked down at me. "It is how you are." Then he leaned down and got real close in my face. I didn't know what he was doing, but I think I may have stopped breathing. "You have spinach in your teeth," he whispered, breathing air into my face. Then he walked away.

I wasn't even going to check if there was spinach in my teeth. I'd never eaten spinach in my life.

"Ass," I said to no one in particular, then opened up the notebook and read his messy scrawl.

_Love changes…fear changes. What the hell does that mean? Are they two separate things? Or by using some mind games, do they connect? I'm always up for some mind games, but love is a touchy subject. It's not even that, though. I don't touch it. Ever. Not even close. And it's not because I think girls have cooties. If girls had cooties, I would have had them my whole life. But maybe this is where the fear factor comes in. Are you afraid to love? Or, the better question, am I afraid to love you? If one changes, does that mean the other one has to change, too? See that's too much change. I don't want it. It's not who I am. And although I know I could in a heartbeat, I'm not going to change who I am. Love and fear could change around me, but it's not going to change me. I live by routine. You're in my routine, but I can't change your role in it. But is it really for your benefit? Or does it bring me back to the original question: am I afraid to love you?_

I closed the notebook in a daze. I saw Scott across the room flirting with some class slut. He laughed and put his hand on her knee.

Every day I sit under my tree and watch the social structure of this school fall into place. I watch the fake befriending, the fake laughs, and the fake smiles. I watch the sluts lean over and expose their thongs for the world to see. I watch the jerks smile their toothy grin after embarrassing someone. But most of all, I watch Scott Fields make an ass out of himself, because that's exactly what he is.

An ass.

But is it possible that I have misread something? Could the whores be insecure? Could the jerks be secretly nerdy? And…could Scott Fields have a soft side?

I looked at him across the room, a goofy grin plastered across his face. He knew he was going to get lucky. I looked down at the notebook. At the words he had written and obviously meant. Something had just changed right then, and I was scared to find out what it was.

The bell rang suddenly, and his eyes shot across the room. He saw me looking at him. I didn't know what he was thinking, but as his eyes searched mine, I knew the answer.

Could Scott Fields have a heart?

Yes, he could.


	7. Act Seven

Seven

"So where do we sit?" Anna asked as we walked into the cafeteria. She was watching the natural bustle around us — of everyone looking for a table and buying lunch, throwing the football across the room and the teachers trying, but failing, to stop them. The lunch line snaked around the room and a bunch of kids were cutting each other and rough housing. Laughter and yelling filled up the room, making it hard to hear. It seemed like a typical lunch at a high school, but of course I knew better.

A football player bumped into me, but he just trotted away like he hadn't noticed me. In another lifetime, this would have bothered me. But now I notice them even less than they notice me. It's become an unwritten law — I don't talk to them and they don't talk to me. Of course, the girls who I always seem to forget their names are an exception.

"Watch it!" Anna called to him from behind me.

I looked at her, trying to send her the _shut up_ signal with my eyes. She either didn't receive it or chose to ignore me. And from the small amount of time I've known Anna, I'm betting it's the latter.

"Watch where you're walking!" Anna yelled after him again, but he was already halfway across the cafeteria, his arm around some blonde cheerleader. We walked to the lunch line and she let out an exasperated sigh.

"Are people always like this?" she asked as she grabbed a tray.

"It's hard to tell. I don't notice."

She stopped mid-line and stared at me. "Christ," she said. "Forget the shovel. I need a freaking fort lift."

I figured this was another jab at my lack of conversation skills and decided to ignore it and move on.

"Do you buy every day?" Anna wondered.

"No, I usually don't buy lunch at all. I just figured you would so I did, too. For today."

"For today," she repeated. I nodded.

We paid for our lunches and emerged from the lunch line, only to run into Scott Fields. Literally.

"Whoa there, _awwww-nuuuhh_," he said, exaggerating her name. I sighed and inched closer to the door. "What're you, stalking me?"

Anna giggled and I said, "Hardly."

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"We were just buying our lunches and heading outside."

"Ah, your secret hiding spot?"

I looked at the door again. "Excuse me?"

"Annaleigh has a secret hiding spot?" Anna wondered.

Scott leaned closer, as if he was telling her a huge secret. "Every day at lunch Annaleigh disappears. No one knows where she goes. Stories have been told, rumors have been spread, but no one knows where she really goes."

"Stop," I said.

He grinned. "'Maybe she eats lunch in the bathroom!' some say. 'Maybe she goes into town and meets up with her secret boyfriend,' other say. Or, my personal favorite: 'Maybe she found a unicorn and she's having lunch in the sky.'"

"You're ridiculous. No one really says that. Everyone knows that I eat lunch outside by a tree listening to my iPod."

"Is that where we were going?" Anna asked.

"It's where _I'm_ going. You can eat lunch wherever you'd like."

"_Dis_!" Scott chanted.

"Shut up," I said.

"Crap," Anna said, looking down at her tray, "I forgot a drink. I'll be right back — don't go to your secret hiding spot without me!"

I sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. Scott winked at her.

As soon as she left, I could feel Scott's eyes on me.

"What?" I asked, but when I looked at him, I could see all traces of teasing were gone.

"You know you could sit wherever you'd like, right?"

"What?" I asked again, more gently.

"Any table would welcome you like that." He snapped his fingers. "They would be _lucky_ to have you at their table."

"Why?"

He waited until he had our eyes locked. "Because you're goddamn gorgeous."

I almost dropped my tray. "So?"

"What do you mean?"

"They'd welcome me because I'm pretty?"

He nodded.

"Ever think maybe that's why I don't sit with anybody?"

He stared at me for a long time after that, trying to read my expression. I sighed, fed up with his antics. "Tell Anna I went outside."

I left then, leaving him with what he thought was my goddamn gorgeousness. But I knew enough about the people at this school to know that he had it all wrong. I sat against my tree, feeling the bark press into my spine and hearing the music blast in my ears. It felt like a typical day. But for some reason, it felt different. And as much as I didn't want to admit it, a small part of me knew why.

I didn't want Anna to go to drama with me after school. I didn't want her to meet Riley. By first look, Anna would be able to tell that something happened between Riley and me. She would use her God-given talent, and declare him hot, saying how into me he is. It would even more when I couldn't disagree.

That's all anyone really cares about in this school. How someone looks. Sometimes I wish people could see for how I really am. And it's not "drop dead gorgeous" or "goddamn gorgeous." The ugly truth is exactly what it is — ugly.

I didn't want Anna to give me another reason to involve Riley in my life. As far as I knew, he was out. And I would rather live happily in my own world than miserably in reality. I knew someday reality would crash down on me, knocking me in the head until I eventually won't be able to take it anymore; but until then I would believe what I wanted to believe.

I walked into the drama room and threw my backpack backstage. As I was getting the new script out of my backpack, I heard a voice behind me.

"I thought you didn't need your script."

I stood up slowly and turned around to face Riley. "Who says it's for me?"

He laughed. "Ouch." He took the script from me and said, "I thought I did pretty good last time."

"You did fine."

"Fine! What a compliment from the world-famous actress!"

I resisted the urge to stomp on his feet and childishly stick my tongue out at him. Instead I said, "Just stick to the script this time."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, only kiss me if it's there in print."

"So if I go home and retype the script, you'd kiss me?"

"No, because then I wouldn't be Rosalina. I'd be Annaleigh."

He laughed. "You got the whole best of both worlds, Hannah Montana thing going on. Well I don't care which one kisses me."

"You don't want Annaleigh to kiss you."

"Why? I've done it before."

"You haven't kissed Annaleigh when she's mad."

"Why are you mad?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, I could feel my heart drop in my chest. A lump rose in my throat as I remembered what had made me so mad, why I couldn't bear to look in his eyes. The eyes of the reason why I lost my best friend. And as I could feel my expression change from mad to hurt, I saw his expression change, too.

"Annaleigh, I—" But no more words followed. He was finally beginning to realize what his actions did to me, but he wasn't mature enough, didn't have the _heart_ to apologize. He couldn't admit what he did, and that it changed my life permanently.

I just shook my head. I didn't know what to say.

"Where's your friend?" I heard Scott say, coming up behind Riley.

I saw Riley look at me. I could see what he was thinking, despite his previous emotions. _Friend? Annaleigh has a friend?_

I stared at the two boys in front of me. Riley Fillmore and Scott Fields — boys that had at one point hurt me, but both in different ways. They stood there, looking at me with the same expression. I sighed, looking at my shoes. I couldn't deal with this.

I turned around, then, walking away from both of them, leaving them wondering what the hell had just happened. I couldn't help but wonder the same thing.

"How 'bout some popcorn?" Candy asked when I walked in after school that day.

"No thanks," I said. I could feel my stomach growling, but I just didn't feel like eating. Too much had happened.

"Pish!" Candy exclaimed. She always left out the 'posh.' "Of course you want some popcorn. Who wouldn't? It's movie theater butter. Extra calories."

I cringed.

"Damn, girl. You better not be watching your weight. You're like a stupid twig. If anything, you should be watching your weight so you don't become one of those dang models. You're too damn skinny and if you don't eat this movie theater buttered popcorn then I'm gonna be forced to call that model agency and tell them you'd love the job they offered to you last year. How 'bout that?"

"Fine!" I exclaimed, walking into the kitchen. "Make the popcorn."

She smirked. "I knew I'd get you with the modeling dig." She pulled out a popcorn bag and placed it in the microwave, pressing some random buttons to get it to start. I doubt Candy knows how to work half the appliances in her kitchen. The microwave started up and it was silent for a few moments.

"So how was Anna's first day?" Candy asked as I sat at her kitchen table. She was watching the lit-up microwave, as the popcorn crackled and popped.

"It was…fine," I said.

"Girl you are the worst liar ever. You get that from Cynthia."

At the sound of her name, my head snapped up. I expected Candy to be backtracking, apologizing for mentioning her — we never talked about my mother — but she was still watching the popcorn bag go round and round in the microwave, spinning in a circle until the time ran out. It didn't even seem like she knew she said it aloud.

But I guess that was the difference between Candy and my dad. Why they never really got along. With my father, everything was unspoken: words and thoughts and actions. Candy was the exact opposite. Words and even thoughts that were meant to remain unspoken always ended up escaping her mouth. It never seemed like she regretted it, though. She always knew what she was saying, and I always knew she meant it.

I just shrugged.

"So how was it really?"

I sighed, tracing the cracks in the table. "Really, Candy. It wasn't amazing but it wasn't horrible. It was just fine."

She gave me a disbelieving look. The popcorn dinged behind her, but she ignored it.

"I have the modeling agency on speed dial."

I snorted. "Do you really?"

"Well…I could never really figure out how to work that dang speed dial. But I know their number and I could call them any time I want."

"Why, Candy," I said in a mocking tone, "I didn't know you were interested in modeling."

"No jokes, Anny."

"The popcorn dinged," I told her.

"What?"

"The popcorn."

"Oh whatever," she said, walking over to the table. "You didn't want it anyways."

I just rolled my eyes as she took a seat with me. "I'm gonna find out even if you don't tell me."

"How?"

"I can always talk to Anna."

"You're making this a bigger deal than it really is."

"No, you're just making this a smaller deal than it really is."

I groaned as someone knocked on the door. I smiled.

"Don't think I'm gonna forget this li'l convo, Annaleigh!"

I continued smiling.

I heard Candy's footsteps as she opened the front door.

"Why, Anna!" she cried. "This is certainly a surprise! Come on in."

"I'm sorry for barging in," Anna apologized as she walked into the kitchen, "but no one was home at Annaleigh's house so I figured she might be here."

"Of course li'l girl. Just like li'l Anny, you're always welcome here!"

Anna took a seat next to me.

"Would you like some popcorn?" Candy asked Anna.

"Sure!"

"See?" Candy said to me. "That's a normal human being for ya." She retrieved the popcorn bag from the microwave and emptied it into a bowl. Then she placed it in front of us and took a huge handful. I just stared at it.

"I'm glad you came, Anna," Candy said while trying to chew and swallow at the same time. "I was tryin' to get it outta her what happened at that school of yours today, but she wouldn't tell me _anything_."

Anna looked at me. "There wasn't anything to say," I said, shrugging.

"There's always something to say," Anna told me.

"Amen!" Candy cried and they toasted their popcorn. "So tell me what _really_ happened, li'l Anna girl."

"Oh my god, Candy. It's _crazy_ there!" Candy raised an eyebrow at me. "Our homeroom teacher, Ms. McCafferty was like, 20 minutes late! And during those 20 minutes the whole class was like, freaking out!"

"Did they set the place on fire?" Candy interjected.

"Uh…no."

Candy smiled at me. "Sophomore year."

"'88," I finished. I knew the story well.

"Anyways," Anna continued, "they were finishing their homework, putting on makeup, throwing footballs, and one couple was making out in the corner!"

"Good ol' Steph and Brian," Candy amended.

"It wasn't like I cared, or anything. I mean I had no problem with it. But the teacher didn't even care, either! She just waltzed in, 20 minutes late, like this whole thing was all routine!"

"That's because it is," I told her.

"Not for me! Oh and then there was the ass comment."

"I'm pretty sure it was a compliment."

"Ms. McCafferty complimented your ass?" Candy exclaimed.

"No," I said. "She said Anna had a good personality, not like the other whores at our school."

"It was very unusual."

"I like Ms. McCafferty," I said.

"Oh-em-_gee_," Candy said. "Anna, you have to like her. When Annaleigh likes someone, that someone's an angel on the freaking earth."

"I guess that makes Scott Fields the devil from hell," Anna said.

I shot her a death glare, but at the same time I agreed with her.

"Scott Fields?" Candy tilted her head. "Annaleigh introduced you to Scott Fields?"

Anna nodded. "Well not really introduced as much as he threw himself at her," I clarified.

"Oh please," Anna said. "He was incredibly polite. Plus he loves you, not me."

Death glare again.

"I would love it if Scott Fields loved me," Candy said. "He is _hot_!"

Anna giggled. "I know, right?"

I sighed; I couldn't disagree.

"Oh and then there was the reason why Annaleigh didn't want me to watch her at play rehearsal, today."

"Play rehearsal?" Candy asked, narrowing her eyes at me.

"Yeah. She was all mysterious about it, saying I would be bored."

"I think I know why," Candy said, still watching me.

"Yeah?"

"Two words," she said. "Riley. Fillmore."

I winced.

"Riley Fillmore?"

"Riley Fillmore."

"Who's Riley Fillmore?"

"Stop saying his name," I said.

They ignored me.

"Riley Fillmore is Annaleigh's ex lover. They were together for a year and then they broke up. A tragedy."

"It wasn't a tragedy that we broke up. It was because of a tragedy, we broke up."

"Excuse me?" Anna asked.

"Candy, just stop talking about it. Please."

"Why? Everyone knows you won't ever."

"There's a reason for that."

"I am feeling very left out of the conversation," Anna complained.

Candy and I just stared at her.

Anna sighed. "Well I guess I'll go then. You'll have to tell me later about this _Riley Fillmore_ guy, Annaleigh." I winced.

"Bye, Anna," Candy said.

"See you tomorrow," she said.

Anna closed the door and she was gone.

I continued to stare at Candy. "Twice in one day," I said, finally.

"What?"

"You know what I'm talking about, and you know there are boundaries that I work hard to keep. Don't cross them."

"I hate to be serious with you, Annaleigh, but when you set boundaries, they're screaming to be crossed. It's why they're invented. It's like when you say, 'don't eat a cookie.' Of course I'm gonna want a cookie!"

"This is more important then a cookie and you know it."

She exhaled. "Annaleigh," was all she said.

We never talked about my mother. It was understood. She knew what happened, though; I could see it in her eyes. I could see it in the way she looked at me when I was having a bad day — those days when my dad wasn't home and all I wanted to do was leave Cornflower Way with him in my mom's truck. She could see me hurting, when my mom's disappearance was burning right through me, like a fire spreading from tree to tree. Every second I become closer to ashes, ashes. And we all fall down.


	8. Act Eight

Eight

It's hard to tell how I felt when I first met Riley Fillmore.

Curiosity? Yes. Intrigue? Attraction? Of course. A girl would have to be insane not to when first meeting Riley Fillmore. Girls voluntarily fall to their knees in front of him, eyes wide with lust, bones and heart molding into one. With one look, Riley Fillmore could make girls do unimaginable things.

But beyond first impressions lies something begging to be explored. It's more than the satisfaction of feeling wanted, or truly desired; being hugged tightly to his chest, his arms around you, finally feeling home. The girl chases and chases until she's close enough to grab on. But when she looks at her fingers afterward, all she sees is air. Empty, meaningless air that leads to pure heartbreak.

For as long as I've known Riley, I tried to convince myself that I was not just another girl. That I was different from the rest. Riley is like a hungry bee, flitting from flower to flower, until he's full and ready to move on. He leaves the flower there, wilting and drying up in the sun, yet it still starves for more. They always want more.

The moment I laid eyes on Riley, I knew he was one of _those_ _guys_, just like how he knew I was one of _those girls._ Blonde hair, chocolate brown eyes, and skin like porcelain — I was a beautiful flower. The perfect one.

Riley moved to Cornflower Way three years after I did. I was fourteen. Candy hadn't warned me yet about the new family, but all the signs were there: the _sold_ sign, house renovations, multiple moving vans, and of course, Riley Fillmore. Riley Fillmore was there, just across the street from me and a couple doors down. It's where he would live, his house glaring across the street at me; taunting me, teasing me, poking me, reminding me that Riley Fillmore was there.

I remember the first time I talked to him, a couple days after the moving van sped down Cornflower Way, leaving permanently to let the new family to settle in their new home. Candy had not even begun to create the welcome wagon or bake her disgusting brownies yet. For the only time ever, I talked to the new family first.

I was sitting on my front porch reading a book I had no interest in. It was late afternoon, but the sun was providing just enough light to permit me to keep reading. I was surrounded by warm, humid air that I hadn't expected. I suppose I noticed the change from inside to out more than others, since I don't usually spend my free time outdoors. I hadn't wanted to go outside but my mother had insisted.

"You've been cooped up in this house all day," my mother had said to me. "Your blonde hair needs some sun. I can practically see it darkening in this room."

I didn't bother telling her that it was because the light bulb was out and she refused to let my father repair it. I sighed and got up, giving her one of those looks. God forbid my blonde hair darkens even a bit. I sat on the porch swing for hours, turning page after page but not really seeing the words. I wasn't bored, though. I was never bored when my mother was involved.

I was just at the brink of finishing the book, when I heard a clear voice call from across the street.

"Damn!" was all he said, his loud, strong voice echoing up and down the road. I looked up from my book, glad for any type of distraction. I saw a boy crossing the street that connected our houses, his eyes on me and the book I held.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

He said nothing as he covered the distance. I couldn't make out his expression, but from under the street lamps I could see his spiky brown hair, sticking up in the shadows. I closed my book and sat up, anticipating what was coming next. He stopped at my grass and looked up at me.

"I said, 'damn!'"

I half-smiled, though confused. "I know. What was the 'damn' for?"

"You have the attention span of a…I don't know. Something that has a really long attention span."

I set the book down on the swing and walked over to him. Up close, I could see his facial features better. He indeed had spiky hair, a slightly stubby nose, and light freckles sprinkled around it. I remember deciding that he was cute, on the brink of gorgeous. He was young; I gave him two years for the gorgeousness to take over.

He was tall, too, and I noticed this as he looked down at me and said, "That book. You've been reading it for hours and haven't moved once. Haven't gotten up to go to the bathroom, haven't gotten a snack, haven't even looked up for a second."

I looked at him curiously. "Have you been stalking me?"

He smiled. He had good teeth, too. "Not stalking. Just speculating. You would have noticed if you'd brought your little nose out of that book."

By fourteen years old, I was used to boys acting like this. I was born with my blonde hair and features. It was a packaged deal since birth. The whole damn ice cream cone. I was accustomed to all types of boys making passes at me, trying to get my attention. I knew how to let them down, and I was ready to at all times. Looking back to when I was fourteen, I realize that nothing really changes.

"It must have been interesting," he continued. "You looked pretty engrossed."

"Well now that's where you're wrong on your speculations. That book was the most boring book I have ever read."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really? It seemed like you were about to make love to that book."

I shrugged. "I'm an actress." I was used to that being the answer to most of everybody's questions.

He narrowed his eyes, obviously intrigued. "Are you?"

I nodded. Even at fourteen, he had the ability to make a girl speechless. He had that air of mystery that everyone wanted to crack. And every time he looked you, you were convinced it would be you. But it never was.

He extended his hand. "Riley Fillmore. 202 Cornflower Way."

I looked up at him as I took his hand. "Did you just tell me your address?"

He smiled. "Yep."

I returned the smile. "Most guys just give me their digits."

Riley laughed. "You sound pretty sure of yourself."

I nodded; he was right. I was sure of myself. At this point in my life, I knew what I was capable of doing. I knew what people saw when they looked at me. And when I was fourteen, I completely agreed. Though I was never this forward. I never let boys know how conscious I was of them —every pass, every flirt, every suggestion. Riley seemed to be different, though. And that was something I would be trying to figure out for the rest of my life.

"You didn't have to tell me your address," I told him. "I would have found out eventually."

"Oh, so who's the stalker now?"

I smiled. "Speculator," I corrected.

"And what's your name?"

"Annaleigh," I said. "Annaleigh Vaughn." Then, I pointed behind me.

"Why'd you just point behind you?"

"That's where I live."

He grinned. "I never would have guessed."

We talked for a while more, just standing there under the setting sun. I learned that we were the same age, were going to the same school, and that he hated chicken and cheese.

"Chicken and cheese?" I'd asked when he told me.

He nodded.

"Why chicken and cheese?"

"They have a weird taste."

"What about the other foods? Do they have a weird taste, too?"

"Nope," he said.

"Just chicken and cheese," I repeated.

He nodded, grinning. "What foods do you hate?"

"I don't really hate foods," I said.

"Really."

"Yeah," I said. "We're lucky to even have food."

"I guess that's a different point of view." He seemed to think about it for a moment. "You're right," he said, finally. "Think of the pilgrims."

I giggled. "And those poor kids in Africa."

"Maybe I'll give chicken another try."

"And cheese."

He grinned. "And cheese."

"Annaleigh?" I heard my mother call from behind me. I turned around to see her standing in the doorway, squinting to find me in the dark. "What are you doing? It's almost dark and we're having dinner soon."

"What are we having?"

"Salmon," she answered.

I looked over to Riley. "Yum." He smiled in return. "I'll be right in," I called to my mom. I waited until she closed the door to turn back around to Riley.

"Well," he said, "it was very nice to meet you, Miss Annaleigh Vaughn."

I grinned. "You too, Riley Fillmore." His name left a mark on my tongue, but for a different reason than it would for the rest of my life.

I started walking back to my house, then stopped and turned around to see he hadn't moved. "Brussel sprouts," I said.

"What?"

"Brussel sprouts," I repeated. "I don't like them."

He smiled. "Too cliché. Everyone hates brussel sprouts. You gotta give me something better than that."

I thought, but came up with nothing. "I'll work on it," I told him.

"I'm counting on it," he replied.

I stood there, looking at him, completely entranced. Finally, I said, "Bye Riley." I only vaguely heard him whisper my name as I retreated back to my house.

I remember peeking out my window as soon as I walked in, to see him still standing there. His hands were in his pockets and he had a thoughtful expression. I felt like a little girl sneaking around, peering through the window. My nose pressed against it, making a foggy circle in its trail. And he still stood there, looking handsome under the moonlight.

It's weird to think that even at fourteen he could hold so much power. I'm still not sure what originally drew me to him. It wasn't his unusual but appealing looks, or the way he presented himself — confident and ready. Not even the way he looked at me, like whatever I said was going to be the most interesting thing he'd ever heard. The only answer that comes to mind is that he who he is. He's Riley Fillmore.

It didn't take long for me to notice the usual symptoms: walking me to and from school (even waiting for rehearsal to be over), helping me study and do homework, sitting with me and my friends at lunch, calling for no reason other than to talk, etc. It became apparent to me that Riley was about to cross the bridge — the bridge that most boys would always attempt to cross. No one ever got to the end, though. Until Riley.

We were walking home from school one afternoon. It was mid October; the frigid air around us and the coloring leaves confirmed it. We were having a discussion about my acting. Even at the beginning of my freshman year, I played Rosalina and Scott Fields played Damien, though the characters weren't quite as evolved as they are now.

"Rosalina seems like quite the character," Riley had noted.

I could feel my eyes brighten at the sound of her name. Even then, Rosalina was my idol. "Yes she is." I laughed. "She always speaks her mind, no matter what."

"You play her really well."

I smiled. "Thanks. I've been acting for pretty much all my life, but so far, Rosalina is the best character I've ever played."

"You really seem to like her," Riley said.

I laughed. "That sounds so conceited. It's like I like myself."

Then, in one swift motion, he took my hand in his. It seemed so natural, like it was by accident, yet at the time it felt right. Like my hand was always meant to be there. "Well I wouldn't blame you for liking either of them," he said.

I could sense what was about to happen. It had happened so many times; I had every move, every word, even every unspoken thought down to a science. I stopped walking, then, and stared down at our clasped hands.

He stopped walking, too. "What?" he asked.

I continued looking at our hands. The feeling I experienced was not something I had felt before.

I felt him sigh beside me. "Annaleigh…" he started.

_Don't be a baby,_ I told myself. I took a deep breath. "No, no. It's fine." I tried to continue walking, but he pulled me back, our hands still intertwined.

"Annaleigh," he said again.

"It's just that," I paused, trying to find the right words, "it's happened before."

"What has?"

I held up our hands. "This."

Riley chuckled. "Well I'm sure. I'd be surprised if it hadn't."

"No," I said, stuttering like an idiot. "I mean, it hasn't."

He looked at me like I was from Mars. "What are you talking about?"

I took my hand out of his and ran it through my hair, feeling stupider by the second. "I guess you don't really know since you're new here, but I figured you'd know enough just by being here for a couple months."

"Know enough about what?"

"Them."

"Annaleigh, you're making no sense."

"Them. The boys."

"Ah," he said smiling, "the boys."

I nodded.

"So what you're trying to say," he said, "is that boys come on to you every hour."

I looked up at him. "Is that what you've noticed?"

"I'd have to be blind not to."

"I don't like any of them," I said. "They're only after one thing."

"Sex," he guessed.

"My hair."

He stared at me for a good ten seconds, then burst out laughing.

"I'm serious!" I started to babble. "All they care about is my blonde hair. It's like I'm the north end of the magnet and they're the south. They stick right on me! They're obsessed with the hair. I'm thinking of dying it brown just to piss them off."

"Annaleigh," Riley said, still smiling, "I don't think they just like your hair."

"No, I think they do."

"I think it's the whole package they like."

"The whole package?"

"Come on, Annaleigh. You have to know."

"Know what?"

"Have you looked in the mirror recently?"

I winced.

He looked at me curiously. "Why does it look like you're in pain?" he asked.

"Don't say it."

"Say what?"

"That I'm pretty. Don't say it."

"Why not?"

"Because I've heard it too many times before."

"So just because some other guys beat me to it means I don't get to say you're beautiful?"

I nodded.

"Okay then. I won't say it."

"Thank you."

"Just curious, though," he said. "Why can't I?"

"Because when I hear it so many times, it becomes tedious, and after a while, hard to believe."

He gave me the Mars look again.

I sighed. "You're right. Boys come on to me every hour. But I always turn them down. In fact, I've never had a boyfriend." I ignored his shocked expression. "They only like me for one thing: how I look. That's all that seems to matter. Because I'm 'beautiful' or 'hot.' I hate it when people say that because I feel used. Like I'm not even a person. When people who I have never talked to in my life come up to me and ask me on a date, I know there's no reason behind it. Well besides, of course, my hair."

"But what about the people who you _have_ talked to? What about then?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well if you've talked to them, and they still like you, then obviously they like you for you."

"But what do you think originally drew them in?"

He was silent for a moment and looked down at the sidewalk, which confirmed my thoughts. "My hair," I answered in a final tone.

Riley looked up suddenly. "No." His eyes were intense. "It wasn't about your hair."

"What?"

"It's about how you can talk for hours about the most random crap, and I don't ever get bored. The way you smile when I talk about something you like, and it lights up your face. Hell, it lights up mine. It's about how you sat there for an entire freaking afternoon, turning page after page. And you didn't even like that book! You read it because your mother wanted you to. You'd do anything for your mom or your dad or your friends. You're _good_, Annaleigh. You're the best." He looked down at me, then took a breath. "It's not about your hair," he concluded again, in a quieter voice. "It's about you."

And then he kissed me. It was sweet and gentle, and through it I could tell that he really meant what he said. He thought I was beautiful because of those qualities, not the other way around. He really liked me for me, because he understood.

We stood there kissing on the sidewalk as time ceased to matter. I remember thinking that nothing could be better than this moment. The moment I realized that I didn't need to hide from myself or Riley anymore. The moment I truly felt beautiful. The moment I knew I was in love with Riley Fillmore.


	9. Act Nine

**A/N: Yesterday, I tried to upload this chapter, but for some reason chapter seven got repeated. Here is the _real_ chapter nine. Sorry for the confusion...Enjoy!**

Nine

_Annaleigh…November 2_

_I remember how your eyes looked that day. They were brown and soft, like liquid. They invited me in, made me feel loved, like I was welcome in your life. Like you wanted me here, there was nothing to worry about. Yet at the same time, I knew there was._

_We were in your garage and your parents weren't home. You'd invited me over, and I'd happily accepted, nervous and excited rolled into one. You answered the door with a guarded expression on your face, like you knew at this time that anything could happen. And you would let it. _

_It was cold in your garage. There wasn't a heater and it was pouring rain outside. I felt goosebumps rise on my legs and arms, and shifted uncomfortably on the workout bench I'd been sitting on. I shivered and you noticed this, yet you didn't lend me your sweater. You let me sit there. Cold. _

_You walked to the mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. At this time, I'd panicked. You couldn't know what this bottle did to my heart. But I played it cool. Like this happened to me every day. And in a way, I guess it did._

_In one swift motion, you took the top off the wine. You didn't use any sort of opener. Then you took a swig straight from the bottle. You kept your eyes on me the whole time. Brown, soft, guarded, loving._

"_Wow," I'd said to you after a moment, "color me impressed."_

_I saw your eyes noticeably change expression when I said this as you put the bottle down on the ground. Your face hardened and I saw an emotion that I cannot describe. I looked at you curiously, wondering what it was you were thinking. I felt vulnerable, like anyone could hurt me. But I didn't think it would be you._

_Then, you put the bottle to your lips again, and you said, "No. Color you warned."_

_Love and fear meet yet again, two opposite emotions trying to fit on the same path. Once again, it's had a terrible affect. I'm scared of you. I have been since the first day I met you. I used to be scared and in love with you. Now, I'm just scared._

"Annaleigh! Are you done? You've been writing furiously for like, the past ten minutes. I gotta write too, you know."

I put the pencil down and slowly lifted my gaze up to Scott's. He looked irritated, anxious; like he'd just been sitting there for the past hour tweedling his thumbs and playing tic-tac-toe on his arm. When really, he had been flirting with his new victim. If only he knew what he had just interrupted. He would want to go back to Angela.

"Why do you look like a little girl waiting in line for cotton candy?" I asked Scott.

He laughed. "What?"

"You look excited."

"Excited for what?"

I shrugged.

"Whatever, dude," Scott said, rolling his eyes and taking the pink notebook from me. "I gotta write. And you gotta leave."

"Okay, _dude._"

I got up, scanning the room. Students were paired up, looking at notebooks. Some were talking, some were writing, others just sat there looking awkward next to each other. I looked at Mr. Thompson, who was sitting at his desk looking at the students, too. When he caught my eye, he smiled and winked, looking at Scott hunched over the notebook. And that's when I knew that Mr. Thompson paired Scott and me up on purpose. But why? Scott Fields and Annaleigh Vaughn sharing their emotions with each other. Perfect match. Yeah, right.

I left Mr. Thompson's class then, taking a bathroom pass, though I knew that wasn't where I was going. Lately, the bathroom has been like my escape to go when I'm scared, when I don't feel like handling what's obviously in front of me. I stare at my face, which usually is the sole reason for why I'm there. It never makes me feel better, though. My face is so beautiful to the others around me, but to me, it haunts me. Reminds me what's happened because of it.

But going to the bathroom and staring at myself is not really an escape. An escape is somewhere you go to free yourself from your problems. You get rid of your past forever, going somewhere where you feel safe and loved for eternity. When you go somewhere just for a short period of time to avoid something that will later come back to haunt you, it's not escaping. It's hiding. And I did not want to hide anymore.

I walked up and down the halls of my school. This school that I've gone to for the past two and a half years. I've walked down these halls in misery, feeling horrible and vulnerable. I can remember my exact thoughts, looking at everyone talking and laughing by their lockers, and I just walk by everyone's scene. Silent.

Some days were worse than others. Some days I missed her so much it was unbearable, and I felt torn apart. Sometimes, I would wonder what she was doing right at that very moment. Was she drunk? Was she thinking of me? Or did she even remember my existence at all? That last thought always set me off, though I hid it as best as I could. I had to be Annaleigh Vaughn, the actress. The quiet girl. The well-behaved one. I couldn't be anyone else.

Sometimes I wondered what would happen if my dad knew how I felt about her absence. If he really could comprehend how much I loved my mother. I wondered if he knew the feeling of being lost; looking through a glass window at the world you once had. Did he know what it was like to be so unhappy, so deserted, it became unlivable?

But then I would look at the world around me, my father's and mine. I'd look at the world we had created after she left, and I'd see everything she left behind: a grape juice stain on the white rug, a cracked mirror in my bathroom, a pair of socks she'd left under my bed, and that stupid truck. She'd taken everything else, leaving us with _nothing._ But the nothing she left us with soon turned into _everything_. It was like my mother had died and those minor remnants of her past were her tombstones. And in a way, they were. For as far as we knew, the old Cynthia Vaughn was no where to be found.

It might have been easier for my dad and me if my mother really _had_ died. It would make us feel less deserted, less unloved. We tried to make it seem like this issue was _her_ problem, and if she was going to continue with this lifestyle then we wanted nothing to do with it. But in my heart, I knew that was wrong. My mother had left us, lied to us, betrayed us, but she was still my mother. She was the person who raised me. She was my best friend. And she left us. Willingly. She took everything that made me, me, and ran off with it.

And just like that, my life was gone. No more jokes about my hair, no more fights over the T.V. remote, and most of all: no more talking. There was no one there to inspire me, to motivate me to keep going. All of a sudden, I was alone. Empty. Hollow. And I looked at my father, and he just continued through the mechanics of life: work, golf, occasional drinks at the club. I didn't see any signs of wallowing or sorrow. No remorse, no tears, and no breakdowns. I noticed his silence more than ever, then. Noticed how unsociable he really was.

And that's when I knew that he really did understand how I felt. That he missed her just as much as I did. That he felt deserted, pained, and unloved. I saw as he would stop short when he passed by that broken mirror, or when he was careful not to step on the stained carpet, as if not to disturb her. The only thing he didn't steer clear of was the truck. And I don't know why.

We should have moved away from Cornflower Way. And when Riley left, it should have been a sign that we should, also. But my father refused to. He had to have this house, the house my mother wanted so badly. She loved the flowers in front, the pale pink trim on the first story. And most of all, she loved the name: Cornflower Way. She loved the originality of it, how it made her feel happy. And my father and I obliged, knowing it was a favor to ourselves keeping my mother happy. But now that I see what living on this street has done to her, all I want to do is get the hell out.

"Annaleigh?" I heard my name called from down the hall. I blinked, coming back to reality. Looking down, I realized that I'd sunk to the ground and was now sitting miserably against someone's locker. "Annaleigh!" I heard it called again.

I saw Scott's figure appear in front of me. I looked up, not knowing what my expression looked like.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" he asked, glaring down at me.

I shrugged.

"Mr. Thompson got worried and sent me to look for you."

I looked at my shoes.

Scott continued talking and sat down next to me. "And I'm glad I found you, so I could ask what the _hell_ this is?" He pointed to my page in the pink notebook.

I swallowed. "What about it?"

He shook his head. "You're unbelievable. You expect me to read this crap and not do anything about it? Just let you sit here looking torn apart?"

I shrugged, again. I could feel myself starting to get enraged, though. When ever in my life has Scott Fields cared about me?

He motioned to the notebook again. "Annaleigh, come on. What is this about?"

I felt a fire start to burn inside me. He didn't care. No one did.

"Fine. Don't talk," Scott said.

We sat there in silence for a couple beats, but then he said, "Why do you do this? It's like you enjoy making yourself miserable. I remember when you were happy. I remember when you had _friends_. This isn't you, Annaleigh. It's not."

I looked over at him and glared fiercely. "You don't know _anything_ about me."

"I know enough," he said. "I know that you have a problem with alcohol, whether it was your experience or not. I know there was an issue with your mother, and some boy who you had a connection with had something to do with it."

"You don't know anything," I repeated.

He was silent for a moment.

"And what about you?" I asked. "You write about all that love crap. You pour your heart out on this little paper, and I read the stupid thing while you're practically undressing some girl."

"I wasn't undressing her," he said softly.

"You might as well have been! You lead some sort of double life. You're so asshole-y in person, but then suddenly you get all sentimental. At least what I write in that stupid journal is real. It's me. At least I can come out and admit that my life is messed up. _At least_ I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not!"

I could feel Scott's expression change next to me. I didn't know what he was thinking. I sat there, trying to control my breathing. Scott knew way too much. I wasn't thinking when I wrote those entries; I didn't think to worry about how Scott would interpret it. I was just writing for me.

Suddenly, Scott stood up. He held out his hand to help me up, and I let him, confused. Then he gave me the pink journal, looking down at me. "You're right," he said.

He walked away, then, leaving me pressed against the locker.

"So, Annaleigh, if you were to look in a crystal ball, what would you see?"

I looked up at Miss Campbell and shrugged. She was the type of person that any type of motion would satisfy her. Not this time though, it seemed.

"So," she continued, "you have no idea what you want to do."

"Do?"

"As an adult. Your career."

"Oh."

It was silent for a moment.

"So? What do you see in the crystal ball?"

It was always like this in the counselor's office, especially Miss Campbell's. They try to get you to talk, to open up to them about your life, and it just turns into a repetitive cycle of nonsense.

"Annaleigh?"

I sighed. "I guess…acting."

"Acting!" Miss Campbell exclaimed. "Now that's exciting! Maybe you should take some courses, maybe get involved in some of the school plays."

I stared at her. Could she be that uninvolved in the school? How could she not know that I've had the lead in the school play since freshman year?

I just said, "I am."

"Well, that's great! It's good to put yourself out there."

I nodded.

"Have you thought about colleges?"

I wanted to tell Miss Campbell how naïve she was. How I've had a partial scholarship to Julliard since the end of sophomore year. How I've been acting my whole life, and _yes,_ I've taken acting classes.

But, again, I refrained. "Yes."

"And?"

"I'm optimistic."

"For what college?"

"Julliard."

"Oh my!" Her hand flew up to her mouth. "That's quite a prestigious school, Annaleigh. I don't want to be the bad news rain cloud, but I don't think you should get your hopes up. Julliard is a very difficult school to get into. Last year in the graduating class, no one got accepted, and we sure had some talented students."

"I think I'll be fine."

"Well I just don't want to see you get hurt."

I nodded stiffly, glancing at the clock.

"What do your parents think of this?" Miss Campbell wondered.

I sighed. She was starting to irritate me. "Well," I said, "considering my dad was the one who informed me of the acceptance, I'm pretty sure he approves."

"Acceptance?"

I stared at her.

"You mean…you have an early admission to Julliard?"

"Partial scholarship," I amended.

"But…you're only a junior!" She pulled on one of her long blond curls, as if this news upset her.

"Partial scholarship," I said again.

"Shouldn't I have known about this? I mean, I _am_ your counselor. And here I was asking you if you had taken _acting_ lessons." She shook her head.

"It's okay," I said. "But can I go? I still have to eat lunch."

"Oh, of course," she murmured, still looking troubled. I got up to leave, but then she said, "Tell me how it goes. The Julliard thing. And I'll be happy to help in any way I can."

I gave her a small smile. "Thanks."

I left her office then, and headed to the cafeteria. Talking about Julliard suddenly made high school seem so…juvenile. I looked at all the cliques and flirting, and none of that really mattered in the end. Freshman year, I got myself so rapped up in Riley because he made me feel special, only to get crushed in the end. What was the point of making any sort of relationships in high school? In the end, nothing really lasts.

"We're making great progress in the play," Mr. Mason said, center stage. "It's going to be a great production when your parents come to see it next month. But until then, we have a lot of rehearsing to do. So? Annaleigh and Riley? Let's do it."

Everyone went to their positions and I climbed on stage. I set myself, ready for Riley to make some stupid comment, when I realized that Riley wasn't there.

Mr. Mason noticed this at the same time as I did. "Where's Riley?"

I shrugged.

"Does anyone know where Riley Fillmore is?" Mr. Mason called.

I heard a few murmured _no's_, and then, "He wasn't in my math class today," someone said.

"I suppose he's sick," Mr. Mason concluded. "Well, I guess we can do a scene between Damien and Rosalina. Scott!"

Scott emerged from behind the curtains. "What?"

"Act two, scene four. You and Annaleigh."

"Cool!" he said. "Where's _Marcus_?"

"Dead," I answered.

Scott grinned.

I rolled my eyes. I was not looking forward to doing a scene with Scott, especially after our conversation earlier that day. It's hard to interact with someone when they knew so much about you.

"Do you know this scene?" I asked him.

Scott smiled and shook his head. "Annaleigh, Annaleigh, _Annaleigh!_ How long have you known me? Two…three years?"

I shrugged.

"When have I ever _not_ known the scene?"

I thought about it. "Beginning of sophomore year. Day after Homecoming. Major hangover."

Scott smiled, remembering. "That was a fun night. Anyways, what I was trying to say is that while sober, Scott Fields always knows his lines!"

"And Scott Fields is a huge ass!"

"Hey, at least I didn't forget my lines during one of the most important scenes in Rosalina and Damien history."

"Just shut up and get on with it."

"With pleasure."

"Okay!" Mr. Mason called from his chair. "I think we've had enough, you two. Forget how much you hate each other and fall in love."

I jerked my head in his direction. "W-What?"

"He means Rosalina and Damien, Blondie," Scott said.

I sighed and we got in positions. I sat on a bench and Scott went right stage.

"And…action!" Mr. Mason called.

Scott started walking along the stage, when suddenly, "Rosalina? Rosalina, is that you?"

I looked up, squinting my eyes to see him.

"Oh my! Rosalina, it really is you." Scott came over and sat by me. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? I'm at the park by my house that you know I always go to. I think the better question is what are _you_ doing here?"

Scott grinned sheepishly.

"Oh, Damien," I said, shaking my head.

"I had to see you," he said. "I had to make sure you were okay."

"And why wouldn't I be okay? Wasn't _I_ the one who ended things?"

"Yes, but I was the one who caused it."

I shrugged, like I couldn't care less. But I knew deep down that Rosalina still loved Damien. She knew in her heart they were meant to be together.

"You shouldn't have come," I said, quietly.

"Why?"

I stayed silent and tugged on the ends of my hair. It was unusual for Rosalina to not say anything. I knew this pause was significant.

"Why, Rosalina?" Scott asked again.

"Because it hurts, okay? It hurts to see you."

"I've said I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. What else do you want me to say?"

"Say that you love me. Say that it was a mistake. Say that you'll never cheat on me again. That you didn't even like that girl. That I'm better than her. Just anything, but you're sorry. I'm tired of hearing it."

"I don't know what to say."

I looked over at him, my eyebrows raised in hurt. "You don't love me?"

"Of course I do. You know that. You know that I think we're made for each other. And I know you think so also."

"No, you don't know that."

"Yes, I do. If you were really over us, you wouldn't be avoiding me so much. You wouldn't say it hurt too much to even talk to me. You're trying to convince yourself that I'm bad for you, that I'm all wrong. But really, you're ignoring what's right in front of you. Which is that you're in love with me. And I'm in love with you."

It's weird how Scott and I can change characters so quickly. We can go from hating on each other to confessing our eternal love. And as I looked into Scott's eyes, all I saw was love. But I knew the truth. I knew he really didn't love me. He wasn't capable of love.

It was just acting. It all was just acting, even outside of the theater. All anyone ever does is act. No one is ever themselves. How many times did I wish that I was Rosalina? How many times did I convince myself that I could be Rosalina if I just tried harder and _harder_? If I pushed myself and acted like I was her? No one is real. Everyone is trying to be someone they're not. Isn't that what acting is all about?

For once in my life, I wanted to be real. To be Annaleigh Vaughn. I don't think I've ever really been her.

"Okay," I said quietly, completely ignoring the script.

"Okay?" Scott asked. I looked up at him. I felt vulnerable, which is not a quality of Rosalina. But I didn't feel like Rosalina, then. And Scott knew that.

"Okay."

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa!_" Mr. Mason called from his chair. "Again, Annaleigh? You forgot your lines _again?_"

I shook my head. "No, Mr. Mason. I didn't forget them."

I knew how important that line was. I knew how it would affect Mr. Mason and Scott. That's why I said, "I'm sorry, I have to leave. I have a dentist appointment." And I left the drama room, then. Walked out to the sidewalk and sat down on the curb.

It wasn't long until I sensed Scott's presence behind me. He sat down and we stared out at the parking lot. There were only a few cars left in the lot. Most of the spaces were empty. No one really had B period. Only the students who were pre-accepted into Julliard.

After a while, I said, "Is it possible to be too good at acting?

"

Scott exhaled from beside me. He leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes. "I guess. If it takes over your life and you get super cocky about it. Like me."

I narrowed my eyes. "What if…it starts to become who I am?"

"What does?"

"Rosalina."

"You're comparing yourself to Rosalina?"

"No. I mean the acting."

"I'm not following you, Annaleigh."

"No one does."

"Why do you have to be like this? Why can't you ever let anyone in?"

"Because I experience things. And then learn from them."

He shifted his body so he was almost facing me. "So you've been hurt?"

It was such a simple question — have I been hurt? — yet such a complicated answer. I sighed.

"What if I act so much on stage that it starts to become who I am?"

He was silent.

"When I said that you don't know anything about me, I wasn't lying. But I also wasn't telling the truth. No one really knows anything about me. But from what I've written in that stupid journal, you know the most."

He remained quiet.

"I guess I don't really know anything about myself, either. I just know what's happened to me. And I suppose my experiences don't make who I am, though I've thought that for the longest time.

"I've been acting for so long it's just become a part of who I am. Rosalina has, too. But I've brought it upon myself. I've given myself this life. This life of acting. Pretending to be someone I'm not."

"Isn't that what acting is though? Pretending to be someone else?"

"But what if what I pretend to be doesn't stay in the theater? What then? What if I've been pretending to be someone I'm not for my whole life?"

"I saw you freshman year. I saw when you had friends and you smiled. I saw you when you were happy. It just seemed so natural. Like the smile was meant to be on that face. But you were different. You were real."

I shook my head. "I wasn't. I haven't ever been."

He stared into my eyes, trying to find the answer. "Then who are you, Annaleigh?"

I looked down at my shoes and his, noticing how close they were together. "I don't know," I said.

Suddenly, a car swerved into the parking lot. We both jumped at the abrupt change of atmosphere. It stopped in front of us, a couple feet down. The driver got out and slammed the door. There was a loud bang and some swearing. And then I saw him. Spiky hair, stubby nose, light freckles. Riley Fillmore.

He walked up and glared down at us. I looked up, meeting his eyes, and almost fainted. I knew those eyes. I knew them better than anything. Red around the edge, pupils straying and slightly dizzying, sending a psychotic message.

I stood up and looked at him in disgust. "Are you _drunk_, Riley?"

He continued to glare down at me. I couldn't bring myself to look away. Finally, he said in a low, mesmerizing voice, "What do you want from me, Annaleigh?" His words slurred, his lips barely moving.

"Damn it. You're drunk."

"Hell if I'm drunk. Listen. You have to listen to me."

"No."

He grabbed hold of my shoulders. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm really sorry! What else is there to say?"

I felt a wash of de ja vu. I could feel Scott's gaze on my back as I said, "Sorry doesn't make it better."

He groaned in frustration, a wave of alcohol settling on me. "I'm freaking sorry, Annaleigh! How many times do I have to say it before you believe me?"

"Considering this is the first time you've ever said it, you'll be saying it your entire life."

"You're so damn stubborn and self-absorbed. You only think of yourself. I can't believe you."

I felt myself starting to get angry. Furious. Enraged. "What I can't believe is that you show up to apologize to me, drunk out of your mind! Do you even realize what you're doing? You're drunk, Riley!"

He licked his lips as his eyes wavered.

"You can't take it back, Riley. And don't say that you would if you could, 'cause you won't."

"How do you know that?"

"Really, Riley? What would you do? What is there to say that would make it better? Are you gonna go to Las Vegas or Atlanta, or wherever the hell my mother is because of you, and tell her it was all your fault? Say that you were the one who tempted her with her weakness? That damn bottle of addiction?"

I heard Scott intake breath behind me. I forgot that he was still there. And that I had written that in the journal, too.

"What then? Are you gonna force her to come home? To get off the wagon? Well you can't do that, since because of you, my mother is forever an alcoholic. She finally had her life back, you know. She had everything under control. And then you went and ruined her life. And mine, too."

Riley closed his eyes for a long time.

"Go," I said. "Now."

He grabbed on to my shoulders again, and shook. Hard. "How many times do I have to say it? I'm sorry! It's never enough. Nothing is ever enough with you, is it?"

And then he let go with so much force that I fell backwards onto the sidewalk. I wasn't hurt, but as soon as I hit the ground, I saw Scott get up for the first time.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Riley asked.

"Leave now," Scott said, "before I call the police."

"No!" Riley yelled. "I'm tired of everyone telling me what to do!"

"You can't drive in this condition," Scott said. "You'll hurt someone."

"Hey," Riley said, squinting his eyes, "aren't you the ass?" He laughed. "Well, well, well. The ass turns into the hero. Well congrats, dude." And then he punched Scott square in the eye. I gasped, in shock. Riley smirked at both of us, turned around to get in his car, and drove off, leaving both of us there on the sidewalk, broken.

I could feel the tears streaming down my cheeks now. I could feel my heart being torn down the middle. What had happened to him? Scott walked over, his eye already starting to swell, and put his arm around me.

I sobbed into his shoulder, feeling like a complete idiot. "I'm so sorry, Scott. I'm sorry about Riley."

"Nothing to apologize for. Though maybe you should talk to my doctor."

I continued crying into him. I couldn't stop. "I was so in love with him," I said. "So in love."

He sighed, stroking my hair. I could feel his breath on my head as he tried to comfort me. "I know," he murmured. "I know."

I felt safe there, sitting in front of my school. After a while, I looked up. "Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't think you're an ass anymore."

He smiled, sadly. "I guess we both need to work on leaving the acting on stage."

He looked down on my face. I didn't know what he was looking for, but when he smiled, I realized he found it.

"What?" I wondered.

His smile widened. "You really are beautiful."

I bit my lip. This was different from when he had called me goddamn gorgeous that day in the cafeteria. It was different from when Riley swooped me off my feet with lies. I was tired of denying it, of fighting everyone about it

"Thanks," I said.

He grinned. "Anytime."

Scott kept his arms around me, then. The tears were gone, but I made no move to get up. His arms were strong; I felt healthy and unharmed. Maybe we stayed there on the curb because we were too lazy to get up. Maybe it was because we were avoiding what was waiting for us at home. Or maybe, we were still in shock. But when I looked up and his eyes met mine, I knew it was because neither of us wanted to let go.


	10. Act Ten

Ten

I was dreaming. I knew I was. There was no way that day could have happened. It was impossible. It was like every person in the universe had a major personality makeover. The decent people turned ugly and rude, and the ugly and rude people turned decent. Some even better than decent. Caring, comforting, seemingly loving.

I looked up at my ceiling while lying in bed. It was white, colorless, just like Anna had pointed out that first day. I closed my eyes in defeat. I knew that yesterday had happened. It just seemed unreal. I didn't know if I could handle it.

There was a light knock on my door.

"Annaleigh?" I heard my dad's voice.

"Come in."

"So I'm leaving now," he said as he stepped inside my room.

I sat up in bed. "Where?"

"Remember I said I was going to Houston this weekend for a seminar. I told you this yesterday when you got home from school."

I nodded, pretending like I remembered. But really, after being with Scott yesterday, everything was a complete blur.

He came over and sat down on my bed. "I trust you with the house, Annaleigh. And to be responsible."

I smiled. "Dad, you know me. Go to your seminar. I'll be fine."

He nodded, seeming convinced enough. And then he was gone.

I had the house to myself for a whole weekend. A normal teenager would take advantage of this and throw a party, maybe invite her boyfriend over to spend the night. But, since I was neither a normal teenager nor someone's girlfriend, I didn't know what to do.

So I stayed in bed the rest of the morning, dozing off once in a while. The rest of the day would have continued like this if there hadn't been a knock at the door.

And when I opened the door, I almost fell backwards. Because standing there in _my_ doorway was Scott.

"Scott," I said, "what are you…doing here?"

He smiled. "I had to see if you were okay."

"Oh, well I'm fine."

Scott raised his eyebrows. "Really? 'Cause from what I know, it's not normal to still be in your PJ's at noon. And it looks like you were still in bed."

"I was not!"

"Annaleigh, your hair is all messed up. It looks like you just went through a hurricane."

I looked at him, offended, but then sighed. "Fine, I was in bed. But that doesn't mean I'm not okay. It just means I'm tired and I like to sleep."

"Okay," he said, looking at me disbelievingly. "So you're telling me that you're really fine?"

"Yes."

"That you don't care about Riley anymore. Or what he did to your mom."

"Yep, that's right."

"So if your mom came back, sober, what would you do?"

My eyes dropped down. It was weird having someone know. "I don't know.

"What about Riley? If he came back sober, too, and begged for your forgiveness, to take him back, what would you do?"

"Punch him in the nose."

Scott laughed. "Really?"

"Well someone has to get back at him for punching you in the eye!" And as I said this, I noticed the swelling had turned into a black eye. "Anyways," I said in a softer tone, "I am so done with him."

We stared at each other after I said that, both wondering what it really meant.

"Do you want to come in?" I asked, quietly.

He nodded. "Sure."

We walked into the kitchen and I sat down at the table. Scott eyed a banana peel and said, "Well at least there's some sign that you're alive. You're downstairs and eating."

I half-laughed. "That was yesterday's breakfast."

"Jeez," he said.

"Why are you so worried about me? I'm really okay. My dad's away on business this weekend so that's probably why I'm still in my pajamas."

Instinctively, I looked down. I was wearing baggy sweats and a yellow tank top two sizes too small. I felt my cheeks blush, wondering if he noticed.

"So if your dad was here, what would you be doing?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. We usually do our own things."

"What about your mom?" he wondered. "What would you do if she was here?"

I smiled. "She always had something planned for us. Whether it was going to parties, visiting relatives, going to amusement parks, going shopping, seeing a movie, it was always decided. I never had a dull moment."

He raised an eyebrow. "Amusement parks?"

"Yeah, she loved them."

"And you loved your mother. I can tell."

"Yeah," I said, "I really did."

It was silent for a minute. Then I said, "Want a tour of the house?"

He gaped at me in mock surprise. "Annaleigh is asking me for a tour of her house? I've heard stories about this. People come in…and never come out!"

"Is this another version of my secret hiding place at lunch?"

He grinned. "Yup."

I rolled my eyes. "Just follow me."

He saluted me and did just that as I took him around the downstairs. I showed him the kitchen, where he discreetly checked the refrigerator.

"You are such a boy," I told him after he realized I had noticed.

"And you are such a girl. All that's in this 'fridge are pink cupcakes and soufflés."

I laughed. "That is such a lie. There are plenty of manly things in my 'fridge."

"Like what?"

I opened the door and looked around. "Like…this celery stick."

"A celery stick is manly?"

"Of course! It makes a big crunch when you bite into it."

He laughed. "So I guess that makes carrots manly, too."

"Definitely. Oh and we have fish."

"I guess fish can be manly."

"Of course it is! You have to be a big strong fisherman to catch it."

"Or you have to be able to know what kind of fish to pick in the supermarket."

Scott looked into the 'fridge again, then snorted in disgust. "It's popcorn shrimp, Annaleigh. A dude would have to eat that in hiding just to not get his ass kicked."

"Hey! My dad eats this stuff, too."

"I wonder how."

"Okay, okay," I said, leading him out of the kitchen. "Enough insulting my poor food supply."

He just grinned.

At that moment, I felt alive. All my life I've been hiding from who I was, who I knew deep down I truly wanted to be. I didn't talk, smile, or show any sort of emotion. And now, here in my empty house with Scott, that's all I ever wanted to do.

I took him into the living room, where he instantly sat down on the couch. I sat down next to him.

"What are you doing? Inspecting its comfy-ness level?"

He bounced up and down on it.

"Does it pass?" I asked him.

"It's very comfortable."

I rolled my eyes. "Usually when I give someone a tour, it's not exactly hands-on."

He ignored me and got up, looking at the picture frames on the mantel above our fireplace. I was suddenly very self-conscious; I hoped there weren't any naked baby photos. When I heard him laugh, I cringed.

"Is this the park by the school?" Scott asked me, holding up a photo.

It was the photo my dad had taken of me when I was about eight. I was swinging on a swing, when my mom insisted that my dad take a motion shot of me. She had me jump off the swing and my dad capture me mid-air. I was supposed to look happy — "it's a happy day in the park, Annaleigh" — but instead I just look terrified. I don't know why my dad still has that picture up there. Maybe to remind ourselves that there were good times.

I laughed, relieved. "No, that was back in California. Before we moved here."

"You used to live in California?"

"Yeah, I moved during sixth grade."

"Did you meet any movie stars?"

I rolled my eyes. "You know, Scott, there are other parts of California besides Hollywood. Like the whole northern half."

"Yeah, but those parts aren't half as fun."

I smiled. "True."

He returned to looking at the photos on the ledge. When I saw him turn back around, I knew which picture he was about to ask about.

"Is this her?" Scott wondered.

He was referring to the light brunette smiling in the picture frame. She looked happy, young. There were slight dimples around her rosy red lips. Her teeth were white, straight, and mesmerizing. She had a smile that was dangerously contagious. Her brown eyes were warm; they would let anyone in. She looked like the type of woman who would stand her ground. She wouldn't put up with anyone's shit, but she would do so in the most mature, most lady-like fashion.

I nodded. "Yes. That's her."

He turned the frame towards him, so he could have a better look at the woman grinning back at him. And then, as if sensing I didn't want to talk about it, he put the picture back on the mantel. No more questions asked.

Scott cleared his throat. "What's next on this brilliant tour?"

I showed him the rest of the house. The dining room, the T.V. room (where he couldn't resist checking the current score on some game), he even insisted on seeing my bathroom.

"Come on," Scott urged. "You can really tell a lot about a person by looking at their bathroom."

"I thought it was by looking at their garbage."

He grinned. "That too."

"Fine," I said, sighing, "but there's really not much to see."

He walked right in and looked around. After some inspection, he said, "Oh I see. You're a toilet seat down kind of girl."

I snorted. "This is seriously the weirdest tour I have ever given."

"How often do you give tours?"

"Oh, you know, once a day. Everyone's _dying_ to see the type of couch Annaleigh Vaughn sits on every day, or the type of toothpaste she uses!"

Scott grinned.

"Anyways," I continued, "I don't share a bathroom with my dad. Of course I put the toilet seat down. What kind of person do you think I am?"

"I don't know," he answered.

"Wasn't this bathroom inspection supposed to determine that?"

He laughed. "It's getting there."

It was silent for a moment.

"You know," he said, "this is the most I've heard you talk in a long time."

"Really."

"Yeah. Usually, you avoid saying anything to me, except to call me an ass, of course."

"Of course."

"But now," he said, "you're speaking some words. You're smiling. There's even some laughter."

I sighed. "I've never been incapable of laughter or smiling. Especially not talking."

"So you're a talker."

"I guess. I don't really know what I am. If someone makes me smile, I'll smile. If there's a reason to laugh, I'll laugh. If there are words to speak, I'll speak them. But lately…"

"Lately there hasn't been reason to do any of those things," Scott finished.

I looked up at him. "Right."

It felt weird to have this conversation while standing in my bathroom.

"So?" I said.

"What?"

"You think you've gathered up enough information based on my bathroom

facilities?"

He laughed. "Enough for now. What's next?"

"I guess…my room?" I said it tentatively, not knowing how he would respond. But he just nodded and followed me in the direction. "Here it is," I said, once I'd opened the door to it and we were both inside. "Nothing special."

I saw him look around. I couldn't tell what he was making of it. Really, it was boring. White walls, brown dresser, blue bed. Plain, lifeless, boring. He continued to inspect my room.

I was beginning to get restless, which was unusual for me. I should be used to silence. Content with it. Instead, I said, "Are you going you going to do the comfy test on my bed, or what?" The moment the words came out, I knew how suggestive they sounded. I felt my face turn red as he grinned over at me. "Oh, God," I muttered.

"Only if you want me to," he answered.

I rolled my eyes, mortified, but he just said, "No, that wasn't what I was thinking about."

"What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking…I was thinking that this room needs some color."

I groaned. "Not you, too."

"Too?"

"Anna agrees with you."

He smiled. "Awwww-nuuuhh?"

I nodded.

"Let me guess: her room is bright pink. So pink it could give you a migraine. It would make you scream and run for you life straight out of the state."

I nodded again, wide-eyed. "It's terrible."

"Anna is quite the character," he noted.

"I have to lie down after every time I talk to her," I agreed. "Put a wet washcloth to my forehead. Take a bubble bath. Eat some ice cream."

He laughed. "I wonder what would you happen if you put her in the same room as a really goth girl."

"Like Amanda Talbot?"

"Yeah! That girl. I wonder what Anna would do."

"Probably try to convert her from the black to the pink polish."

"You know," he said, "I was surprised to discover that you two were friends."

"You mean," I amended, "that you were surprised that I had any friends."

He smiled. "That too."

"Well, she's not exactly my ideal friend, but every day she hasn't tried to dye my hair pink I call successful."

He fake gasped. "God forbid she mess with the hair!"

I turned to look at my reflection in the mirror. "Right," I said, quietly. "The hair."

I saw Scott come up behind me, and stare at my face the same way I was. "You always get that look," he said, "when I talk about you."

"What do you mean?"

"Whenever someone compliments you, or they even mention your face or your looks, your eyes cloud over and your hair falls into your face." He paused. "You're embarrassed. You don't like all the compliments."

I studied his face in the mirror. "You're wrong."

"No. I'm not."

"Yes you are. I'm not embarrassed. And I would like the compliments if they were true."

I saw his face change into shock. "You don't…believe them?"

I turned to face him. "No."

"You don't think you're pretty."

I stared into his green eyes, taking my time so he would know I wasn't lying. "No."

"Well, then," he said. "I guess that makes you psychotic."

I laughed, though it sounded weird. "Why?"

"Look at yourself, Annaleigh. How could you not see what's right in front of you? Can't you just admit that you're beautiful?"

I looked at myself, like he told me to do. I saw what I always saw when I looked in the mirror. I shook my head and felt him sigh beside me.

"I see what you see," I said. "I look at myself and I see the blonde hair. I see the deep brown eyes. I see the flawless skin, how my cheekbones are perfectly placed, and how my lips are pink and inviting to everyone around me. I see everything that everyone sees. I just don't think it's beautiful."

"You don't."

"No. I hate it when people call me beautiful. I _hate_ it."

"Why?"

I stared at my face in the mirror. I was tired of always seeing it. "I've explained it before. And it's gotten me nothing. Nothing but a broken heart."

"Who—" but then he stopped himself. "Riley."

I nodded, grimly.

"Annaleigh." He said my name in an exhale. "I know what he did to you. I know that you chose to open up to him and he broke your heart. But Annaleigh, I would never do that to you."

And I looked up at him, his emerald green eyes filled with honesty, and for some reason, I made a choice. I chose to believe him.

"Too much has happened," I said. "Too much has happened to me. Too many ugly things. I feel so ugly inside, it's impossible to believe I can be beautiful on the outside. And the prettier people tell me I am, the uglier I feel. I feel like I can't have it both ways. But I'd rather have an ugly face, than feel so damn angry on the inside."

He thought about it for a moment. "So what you're saying," Scott said, "is that you want to be ugly."

I nodded.

"Okay," he said, grinning. "From now on, you are ugly to me. The ugliest person on the earth."

"Thank you."

"But you know," Scott continued, "in return, that makes you beautiful on the inside. And beauty has a magical effect. It takes over. It can get rid of every bad and scary emotion in your body." He moved a little closer to me. "You don't have to be scared anymore, Annaleigh."

I heard my intake of breath, surprised by how close he was to me. I looked up and saw the intensity on his face. I knew he was going to kiss me then, with us standing so close and his words lingering in the air. I could have sworn I saw him move in. And I would have been ready. I would have kissed Scott Fields.

But he didn't kiss me. He walked across my room, pressed play on my clock radio, and came back to me. Grabbing my hands, he said, "Want to dance?"

I smiled and wrapped my arms around his neck, then laughed. "We're going to dance to _this_ song? It's a rap song."

"Damn!" he said, grinning. He went back over and changed the station. "Better?" It was a slow song.

"Better."

He wrapped his hands around my waist, hugging me tightly against him. Resting my head on his chest, I thought of what he said earlier. _You don't have to be scared anymore._ I hadn't even told him that I was scared, yet he knew. He knew even when I didn't. I hadn't realized until now that I have been scared my whole life.

But then Scott Fields, the _real_ Scott Fields, enters my life, and suddenly I'm not afraid anymore. All it took was for one person to tell me that I wasn't beautiful to finally really feel beautiful. I should have known all along that that one person would be Scott Fields.

We continued dancing, even when the song changed. The genre didn't even matter. All that mattered was that he was holding me in his arms, and I never wanted the music to end.


	11. Act Eleven

Eleven

"What was California like?" Scott asked.

We were sitting on the ground of my living room, our backs leaning against the couch. We'd spent most of our time just talking about our lives. My voice was getting hoarse; I couldn't remember the last time I talked this much.

I shrugged. "Like any other state. A little sunnier, maybe. A few more stuck-up people with blonde hair and a fake tan."

"Were you in that category?"

"The blonde hair and fake tan category?"

He nodded.

"Nope," I said. "My tan was never fake."

Scott laughed. The noise sounded so familiar now; I had heard it so much in the past couple hours. "Did you ever travel to southern California?" he asked.

"Sometimes. My mom loved the beach."

"Then why didn't you just live there?"

I smiled, remembering. "My mom thought that if we lived on the beach it would become old and unexciting. She thinks that if things happen every day, they are dull and mundane. She likes them to be fresh and new and spontaneous. So we lived in Nor Cal, and we vacationed to the beach once in a while."

"Why did you guys move?"

"Move to New Jersey?"

He smiled. "Where else?"

I rolled my eyes, but then said, "My dad wanted to."

"Your dad?"

I nodded. "I was surprised too. My dad is always the low-key, go with the flow guy. He never states his opinion unless it is to agree with someone. When he said he wanted to move across the country, I was anticipating a fight. A big blowout. My mother loved California. But she just nodded her head, and said, 'Okay.'"

"Wow."

"I guess maybe she agreed because she knew my dad. And she knew that my dad really wanted this, if he was willing to even suggest it."

"So, you moved to New Jersey."

"Yep, we did."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What do you think?"

"Of Jersey?"

He nodded.

I thought about it for a moment. "No one here is tan."

He laughed. "Not much sun."

I shook my head. "Nope." It was silent for a moment. Then I said, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Have you lived here your whole life?"

"Yup, since my parents took me home from the hospital."

"Same house?"

He nodded.

"Wow, I can't imagine that. In California, my mom was always moving from house to house. Each time, she declared herself, 'Ready.' In other words, bored."

"That must have been great," Scott said. "I can't wait for the moment I graduate so I can leave."

"Bored?"

"You have no idea. Seventeen years living in this small town? Seeing the same people every day? Nothing ever changes."

I was silent for a moment. Then I said in a quiet, sure voice, "Some things could."

The moment the words came out, I knew what they meant. Scott shifted his gaze from the window and focused on me.

"Yeah," he said. "They could."

Our eyes locked for a second, and then I looked away. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. I couldn't believe this was happening. I liked Scott Fields. A lot. And that scared the hell out of me.

He must have seen this on my face. "Annaleigh."

I looked up. "What?"

"You're scared." It wasn't a question.

I stared into his green eyes, feeling vulnerable, yet safe at the same time. Maybe that's what love is; letting out all your feelings, telling someone every little secret, but feeling secure. You give them the power to hurt you, but you know in your heart that they won't.

Scott intertwined our hands, staring down at them. "Me too."

He leaned in then, his eyes on me. I knew he was going to kiss me. This time he really was. Our lips were only centimeters apart when we heard a boom come from outside. We both jumped, startled.

I looked out the window to see the trees dancing in the wind and water splattering against the window. "Oh my God," I exclaimed. "It's raining."

"Jesus," he muttered to himself.

"Come on," I said, taking his hand. "I love the rain."

"Don't you want a coat?" he asked.

"Coats are for amateurs," I answered.

The rain was pouring hard when we got outside. My hair was drenched in seconds, and my clothes stuck to my skin. I didn't care, though. Standing in the rain always felt so right to me.

I turned my face up to the sky and opened my mouth, letting the drops of rain fall onto my tongue. I felt Scott's presence next to me, and I turned around to face him. He looked gorgeous in the rain, the specks of rain looking like crystals in his brown hair.

"Why are you smiling at me like that?" I asked him, raising my voice to be heard over the rain.

"Like what?"

"Like you're watching your daughter show you a piece of her artwork."

"That's a weird analogy."

"You look amused."

"I am."

"Why?"

"You look so happy in the rain. It makes me happy."

I smiled. "I love the rain."

"So I see."

"In the rain, everyone's hair gets messed up. Their clothes become drenched and their makeup runs down their faces. They have nothing left but themselves. They _have_ to be real. It's like the rain comes and washes out their insides of anything bad. It makes everything better."

He looked at me in an indescribable way. I wished I knew what he was thinking.

"You and I are a lot alike, you know," Scott said.

"Really. How?"

"Well for me, all the girls in the school want to be around me. I've had tons of girlfriends—"

"Thanks!" I said, sarcastically.

He grinned. "—_but_ I've never really cared for any of them. And you have all the guys following you like there's no tomorrow, but unlike me, you don't care. Nor even seem to notice. You ignore them all, while I go out with them all, whether I care about them or not. And then when I realized that I didn't like any of them, I would dump them. They'd be heartbroken. I guess that's how I got the title of the ass. But I had to try, you know? I had to see if they were the one."

I was silent for a moment. Then I said, "I've never been one for experimenting. I've always believed that the right one would find me. You can push through a whole mob, pushing and elbowing your way to the front, or you can stand there and wait for the crowd to disappear. That's what I decided to do."

He thought about this, then asked, "And are you happy?"

I smiled. "I am now."

I looked up at him. The rain was still pounding on us, water was dripping down our cheeks, my clothes were soaked, and it was perfect.

Scott took hold of my face, his hands on either cheek. He looked down into my eyes, as if checking to see if this was what I wanted. I heard Scott's voice in my head: _There's no reason to be scared anymore, Annaleigh_. Scott was different. He wasn't Riley. He wouldn't hurt me. Rosalina and Damien were meant to be together.

Slowly, I nodded. It was barely visible, but it was enough.

He kissed me then, bringing me as close to him as possible. We had kissed before on stage, when he was Damien and I was Rosalina. It had been staged, rehearsed, acting. It wasn't forced, since we were good actors, but I never really felt like I was kissing Scott Fields.

This was nothing like that. This time, I was really kissing him. And he was kissing me. It felt so right, with the rain surrounding us. It created a kind of private area, a place where only Scott and I existed.

**---**

The moment Anna showed up on my doorstep Monday morning, she knew something was different. Even I knew. I looked in the mirror when I woke up that morning and an entirely different person stared back at me. Someone who smiled. Someone who looked happy.

It wasn't like when I fake smiled in the mirror at school, when I was trying to perk myself up, trying to tell myself that everything was okay. I didn't have to do any convincing, today. I was just happy.

"Oh my God!" Anna squealed, walking in. "Either you got laid or you just ate a whole carton of ice cream! And I'm betting on the first one, 'cause with a figure like that, I doubt you eat anything."

I smiled — I couldn't help it.

"Oh em _Gee_!" she screamed again. "You did it! You did _the deed_. Tell me everything! Who was it? Was it amazing?"

I rolled my eyes. "I didn't _do it_, Anna. And keep it down — my dad lives here, too, you know."

"Oh who cares? Now tell me what's gotten you smiling. I've only known you for like, a week, but I know you don't smile much. Was it a hottie?"

I bit my lip and nodded.

Her jaw dropped. "_The_ hottie?"

I nodded again. Never in a million years would I have imagined myself talking boys with someone like Anna. Or anyone, for that matter. But here I was, confessing my emotions to a girl who doesn't own a piece of clothing that's not pink. I couldn't help think that my mother would be proud of me at this moment.

Anna started jumping up and down. "You did it with _Scott Fields_?!"

I groaned and shushed her. "No! We didn't do it!"

She pouted, disappointed.

I smiled again. "We just…we kissed."

"You…kissed?"

I nodded.

"God, Annaleigh. You're seventeen! No one 'just kisses.'" She made air quotes. "There's always something after. Something to finish off the night. You don't _just kiss_!"

"Well Scott and I did."

She shook her head. "I always knew something was wrong up there."

I rolled my eyes.

"But how right was I? I told you, didn't I? I told you he loved you!"

"He doesn't love me."

"Of course he does."

I just gave her a look.

"So are you guys like, together?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you an item? Like, boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"Well we kissed. Usually that's a sign we're together."

"No, no, no! Do you know _nothing_?"

I sighed. "Anna, are you going to give me boy advice?"

"Hey, it worked the first time."

I looked at my watch. "We're going to be late."

"I don't give a rat's ass." She fluffed her hair and continued. "Just because you kiss, Annaleigh, doesn't mean you're together. Boys these days have all sorts of different ways of having a relationship. First off, they don't call it a relationship. They call it a 'fling,' or a 'hang out.' Sometimes even a booty call. If you've got a real keeper, he just calls it a 'thing.'

"They're all into the whole friends with benefits thing. No strings attached. Keepin' it loose. Casual. You have to set it straight with them. Tell them you want a _relationship_, not just a thing. Things are bad. You never want a thing."

"God forbid I ever have a thing!"

"You can joke now, Annaleigh, but don't come crying to me when you see Scott kissing another girl."

I sighed, picking up my backpack. "Let's just go. We're seriously late now."

She shrugged and walked outside. "Oh, Jesus," I heard her mutter.

"What?" I asked, and joined her at the doorway.

There was a car at the curb. A black Honda.

"Is it—?"

"Oh yeah," Anna finished. "The hottie."

As we walked to the car, she stopped me halfway. "Okay, so this could still mean it's a _thing_. You just have to watch how he presents himself, how he acts around you. What he says or how he says it. Trust me; I'm an expert at this type of thing."

"Right," I said, sarcastically.

I pulled open the passenger door and Anna got into the back.

"Hey," Scott said, smiling.

I smiled back. "Thanks for giving me a ride."

"Yeah, I'm just her plus-one," Anna called from the back.

"Well," Scott said, starting up the engine, "I couldn't have you two ladies walking to school alone. What would the people think?"

We drove down Cornflower Way as I saw Anna give me a look in the rearview mirror.

"So Scott," she began, "I assume you have good intentions."

"In what?" he asked.

"Oh you know," she answered.

Scott looked over at me and grinned. I rolled my eyes. "No, Anna. I don't know."

"With Annaleigh."

"What about Annaleigh?"

"Your …uh…thing."

"My thing?"

"Yes, your thing!"

I groaned.

"I don't know which thing you're referring to," Scott said.

"The thing you have with Annaleigh!"

"_Oh_!" he said. "The thing I have with Annaleigh." Anna nodded from the backseat. "What about it?"

"Do you think it's a thing?"

"Well you practically just told me it was."

"Did you think it was a thing before I told you it was a thing?"

"I don't know."

"Jesus," she muttered to herself. "Can't have a simple conversation with a boy without it going crazy."

I turned around in my seat to glare at her.

"What?" she asked, innocently. Scott just laughed.

It was silent for a moment. Then, Anna said, "So Scott, how was your weekend?"

He smiled at me. "It was great."

I laughed. "Sure was."

"Oh, I get it now," Anna said. "You guys have your own private jokes and I'm just stuck in the back like a third wheel." She paused. "You know I never really got that. I mean, cars have four wheels. Shouldn't it be fifth wheel?"

"I think it was meant for a bicycle," Scott said, "'cause they have two wheels."

"But no one rides bikes anymore! It's always just cars all the time. You don't see anyone picking me up with a bicycle."

"Maybe that's because you're not in a _thing_," I said to her.

Scott laughed, while Anna glared at me. I just sat there, enjoying the rest of the silent car ride.

When we got to school, Anna slammed the car door. "Have fun you two," she said, winking awkwardly, and left Scott and me leaning against his car.

I sighed, turning to look up at him. "I think all the pink has gone to her brain."

He laughed. "God, it was like being hooked up to a lie detector. I feel kind of scared, now."

I snorted. "Of the pink girl?"

He nodded, grinning. "Will it be this hard when I meet your father?"

"_When_ you do?"

"Isn't that what you do when you're in a thing?"

I smiled. "I guess so."

He leaned down and kissed me, then, wrapping his arms around my waist.

"What do we tell the people?" I asked him when he broke away.

"The people?" he asked.

"The people at school. What do we tell them?"

"Well," he said, pulling me closer, "I'm sure Anna's already spread the word around about the thing. I'm sure it'll be on the 10 o'clock news by tonight."

I smiled. "So we're not keeping it a secret?"

"Don't see why we should."

"They'll probably think it's weird that we're together."

"Why?"

"Freaky iPod girl and the class womanizer?"

"Hey," he said, putting his hands on either of my cheeks. "Reformed."

"I know." I smiled. "Let's go inside. It looks like it's going to rain."

Scott grinned. "That's never been a problem before."

"Touché," I said and he grabbed my hand.

"And no one thinks you're the freaky iPod girl. They see you as the mysterious and beautiful iPod girl."

I laughed. "Right."

"Not me, though."

I shook my head. "Nuh uh."

"I don't think you're beautiful _at all_."

"Certainly not."

Scott lifted our intertwined hands and kissed it. "Not at all."

I knew we were going to hear them when we walked in the school. The whispers. The conspicuous mutters about the new relationship being displayed. Some weren't even whispers at all. They didn't try to conceal their shock, or in some cases, their former knowledge.

"I knew it," one said. "I knew it would happen sooner or later."

"Of course it would," another agreed. "They make out every day on stage."

Some were solemn. Cheerleaders pouted as they glared at Scott's hand in mine. They couldn't tear their eyes away from it, daggered eyes. In a way, I couldn't either. It was all I could do not to stare at our clasped hands. But not for the same reason. The last time I walked through these halls, debuting a new relationship, was with Riley. It's like we were on the red carpet, and everyone was inspecting our new proclamation, each with a new opinion.

"It won't last," someone whispered. "Fields can't maintain the rock."

Scott heard this, and glared at them, squeezing my hand. I swallowed. I could handle the spotlight on stage, but not in the halls. Now everyone was looking at Annaleigh, not beautiful Rosalina. I couldn't handle this.

Scott sensed my discomfort. "Let's go," he whispered in my ear.

He took a right at the next hall and led me with our hands to a quieter place.

I sighed.

"Everyone here needs to get a life," Scott said.

I laughed, a nervous laugh. It sounded forced.

"It's hard," he said. "But not impossible."

I nodded. "I know. There isn't really anything students here can do to make me hate them more. I'm used to it."

He gave me a sad look as the bell rang. "You okay?" he looked down at me.

"Perfect."

He smiled and kissed my cheek. "I'll see you in Health."

**---**

I hadn't expected to see him there. Not after last weekend. Not after what he said. Especially not since he'd never been in my Health and Life class before.

I was sitting with Scott, ignoring the constant whispers that we've both had to endure all morning. Anna walked in and said hello before she sat in her seat.

"Jeez you'd think someone broadcasted on the news this morning about the two of you by all the gossiping going on in the halls this morning. I only told a couple of people."

I decided to ignore her as she flounced away. I turned to Scott to smile about her, when I saw his face tense.

"What?"

I looked in his focused direction and felt my heart stop.

"Riley Fillmore!" Mr. Thompson exclaimed. "A pleasure to have you in my class again."

I heard some coughing in the other end of the classroom and found Anna. _Him?_ she mouthed to me. Slowly, I nodded. When I turned my attention to Riley, I saw him coming over to Scott and me.

"How cute," Riley said. "Prince Charming and Cinderella together at last. The knight in shining armor gets his girl 'cause he's the good guy."

I put my hand on Scott's arm to calm him. I could feel his anger growing next to me.

"Go away Riley," I said. "I don't know how many times I have to say those words before you finally listen to them."

He shook his head, ignoring me, and turned to Scott. "You may be Prince Charming, but I guarantee there will be no happily ever after."

He walked away then, right as the bell rang.

"Psycho," I murmured to myself.

Scott half-laughed.

I sighed. "Sorry. I come with a lot of baggage."

Scott shook his head, said, "Don't worry about it," and went off to his seat.

"Damn!" Anna said, sitting in front of me. "That was intense!"

I nodded.

"And that Riley, he's hot! I mean, Scott is hotter, but I can totally see why you fell for him. Just not why you broke up." She waited for me to explain, and when I didn't, she said, "But jeez! That stuff never happens to me. I guess only to the DDG pe—"

"Anna?" Mr. Thompson called. "Were you and Annaleigh listening to a word I was saying?"

Anna, who knew how it worked in Mr. Thompson's class, said, "Not really, Mr. T."

"What were you talking about?"

She turned around in her seat to look at me, biting her lip. She knew she couldn't lie. "Just how hot your new student is. Well actually I was, Mr. T., not Annaleigh here. She has her own boyfriend now. The other hot one, Scott."

Mr. Thompson just laughed, and directed conversation to a new subject.

I groaned and put my head on my desk.

**---**

Scott had to go to the counseling office during lunch. It was probably for the same reason I had to: the terrifying aspects of our future.

When I was walking to my class after lunch, I heard some unfamiliar voices talking around the corner of the hallway. I would have ignored them if I hadn't heard them mention my name. And then if I hadn't heard a very familiar voice answer.

"Good job, my buddy! You finally got her down. You did the impossible."

"Shut up," Scott said. "It's not impossible."

"What'd you do? Blackmail? Remember what you did with Mary Anne? The whole setup? Pure genius, my friend. Genius!"

I winced. I didn't want to know.

"None of that," Scott said. "You just have to stop being an ass for two seconds of your life."

"So that's all you're allowing? After two seconds, you're back to your old ways?"

I heard Scott laugh. "You don't get it, my friends. We can be the huge jackasses we are, or we can stop and let people in. You'd be amazed what can happen."

They snickered. "We saw what could happen. You landed the hottest girl in school. But we know you, man. We know that you are who you are. And you can't change yourself."

I sensed Scott shaking his head, then muttering a "fuck off," and headed to his next class in the opposite direction.

**---**

"You're different," Candy said when I arrived at her house after school.

I walked in the doorway. "No I'm not," I said, smiling at her.

Her eyes widened. "Holy Mary you just smiled at me."

I rolled my eyes. "So?"

"It wasn't even a smile. It was a grin. A goofy grin. An in-love grin."

"Please. My smile was not a goofy grin."

"Was it in-love?"

I paused walking to the kitchen.

"What was that fancy schmancy car that dropped you off here?"

"No one." I headed to the kitchen. "You know I'm kind of in the mood for popcorn."

"Oh pish. Bull shit. You're never in the mood for popcorn. I have to threaten to call modeling agencies to get you to eat and now you suddenly want popcorn? Nuh uh. No way. You tell me what's going on right now. Or I will call the modeling agencies."  
Candy took out her cell phone and gave me a look.

I bit my lip. "I'm with Scott."

It took a while to sink in. Then she blurted, "Holy Mary mother of Jesus."

Her mouth dropped a foot.

"You're so Christian today," I noted.

She ignored me. "So have you done it?"

"Why is everyone thinking we've done it?"

Candy gave me a look that made me feel like a little kid. "Uh, cause you're seventeen?"

I shrugged.

"Okay." She dragged me to the couch and looked me in the eye. "Remember when you first moved here, like 5 years ago? And 'member when I said that you can come talk to me 'bout anythin', like drugs or alcohol or any of that shit?"

I nodded.

"Well, if you need help with…that department…with Scott, you know where to find me."

"Gross, Candy."

"Hey," she said, holding up her hands, "better me than your pops."

I laughed. "True."

"So do you need me to give Scott a talk?'

I narrowed my eyes. "No!"

"Better me than yo—"

"I'd rather have my dad talk to him. At least then he won't recommend the best brand of condoms."

Candy laughed. "I really scared the bajeezus outta that Riley Fillmore, didn't I?"

I traced the pattern of the couch with my finger. "Yeah. You did."

She studied my face. "Sweets, I'm sorry."

I looked up. "For what?"

"I see what talking about him does to you. You face clouds over and your eyes get all sullen lookin'. It's almost as bad as when I mention Cynthia."

I felt my heart drop as I tried to swallow.

"Like that!" Candy said.

I smiled a weak smile. "It's okay, Candy. I see Riley every day at school. If I can bear seeing him, then I can at least handle you mentioning his name one time."

"But not Cynthia."

My eyes drop down again. "No. Not her."

It was silent for a moment. Then Candy said, "Well then. I dunno 'bout you, but all of a sudden, I'm having a major Rocky Road ice cream craving. It's like bein' pregnant, though not like I would know, but I've watched enough TV to get an idea. What do you think Anny? You want some Rocky Road ice cream?"

I nodded, standing up. "Sure. Rocky Road is fine."


End file.
